


it's never easy

by arialin



Series: in search of simplicity [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Childbirth, Discussion of Abortion, Dubious Morality, Engagement, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Mpreg, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Post Reichenbach, Slow Build, all the angst!, but then again so is sherlock, implied past relationship, it's all a bit 'not good', john is a bit of a dick, mrs hudson is a bamf though, mycroft is an interfering bastard, so not series 3 compliant, they drink a lot of tea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-08 04:54:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arialin/pseuds/arialin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock was little society told him that it was easy to have a family, that once he had found a willing alpha it would be simple – marriage, a house, and then a baby or two to top it all off. </p><p>Unfortunately as with many things in Sherlock’s life taking the easy road is a lot harder than originally expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first fic in this fandom and I’ve decided to throw myself in at the deep end by creating a monster! This is pretty much the longest, craziest thing I’ve ever written before and I’m a little nervous about posting, which is why I’ve actually decided to post the prologue before I’ve actually finished the entire fic just to see what all you guys think. 
> 
> Hopefully you all like it! Because I’ve been having a lot of fun writing it (which is probably how it’s ended up at 25K already, oops).
> 
> I will warn in advance however that this will not be a fic full of sunshine and rainbows. If you're looking for something with a quick fix then this fic is not for you, it will be long and messy and frustrating, problems will not be resolved within a chapter, maybe not even several, but they will get resolved in the end. Characters will do really stupid things, everyone is a bit (or a lot) of a dick, they all make mistakes and some may think they come across as a little OOC and not agree with their actions, but I’ve tried to be as realistic as I feel I can considering the premise is as pretty unrealistic as it is. I am working to a plan, there is a timeline, so I will ask that if you feel like reading this to bear with me, this will all get fixed in the end.
> 
> I will say that despite all the angst through there is a lot of fluff, I promise. 
> 
> (Also I know that the effects of antibiotics on birth control are a little debatable in some circles, but in this case I am claiming artistic license.)

The 2 pink lines are stark against the white of the plastic, a soft candyfloss pink used to invoke images of small fluffy teddy bears, warm cotton blankets and smooth baby skin. Innocent, a more appropriate description; the whole thing just looks so _innocent_. 

Sherlock exhales slowly as he lowers the test back to the edge of the sink and allows his eyes to flutter shut, his brow wrinkling ungainly as his jaw clenches around a bitten back curse. 

_Pregnant_. How could he have been so _stupid_.

*****

For once Sherlock is glad for John’s obsessive need to lead his own life away from 221b and the whirlwind of cases and dubious experiments. He calculates he has 5 hours left to process the information he has been given and arrive a suitable conclusion; it’s more than enough time, more than enough. 

And so Sherlock sits, and paces, and makes tea repeatedly leaving it to simply go cold when he paces back into the front room, his mind off on another matter all together. 

The first thing to establish is _how_ , how on _Earth_ had this situation occurred. Sherlock was meticulous with his birth control and he was certain he had in fact not missed a day, _especially_ around his heat, so how, _how_ had he ended up in this state? What circumstances had been irregular around his last oestrus? They’d been investigating the Hillard case, theft of several 100 year old pieces of family jewellery which had soon turned violent with the addition of the murder of Mrs Hillard’s niece. The case had taken longer to solve than expected, mainly due to the unfortunate timing of a persistent ear ach – 

Oh. John had prescribed him Amoxicillin. Oh damn it all to _hell_. How could he have been so _stupid_? An amateur’s mistake of the highest. He now remembers vaguely John protesting somewhat upon returning to the flat after the crux of the case – whereon Sherlock’s heat had decided to come upon them full force on the journey from the Sussex estate – before eventually giving in to Sherlock’s persistent groping, and plunging them both into a hormone riddled pool for the rest of the week, from which no cognitive thought would have the ability to escape before the damage had already been done. 

Sherlock drops unceremoniously to sit on the sofa, his head immediately falling into his hands as he groans despairingly. For 19 years he had managed to successfully avoid getting himself in the ‘family way’, even drugged up encounters with random strangers in his early 20’s where he had not known whether or not protection had been involved at all, had not caused him a scare. Who would have thought that such a small simple antibiotic and a short blonde haired army doctor would be his downfall? 

He sighs and straightens himself slightly, steeling his shoulders and pressing his fingers to his lips. Right, so what to do about this – _situation_? 

Option 1 – the most logical – pick up the phone and schedule an appointment at a clinic as far away from Baker Street as possible to have this mistake rectified, leaving nobody (John) to be the wiser. By far the most convenient and responsible, their lifestyle at 221b is not fit for raising children and many would argue – quite rightly Sherlock adds – that _he_ is not fit for bringing up a child. 

Then there is Option 2. Continue with the pregnancy and find a suitable couple to raise the child. This option has the benefit of the continuation of his DNA (something that Sherlock has despite himself, always thought to be an attractive prospect) that the first option doesn’t, but adds in the recklessness of him _actually having to be pregnant_. The upside is that after the 6 months (?) left of his pregnancy he would not be responsible for the welfare of the child anymore, and some might even consider his actions uncharacteristically charitable; but the downside is that John would indeed have to be made aware of his condition and that may lead to concerns over John’s attachment to the unborn child. He would hate to lose his flatmate/blogger/colleague/friend over this predicament.

But then lastly there is Option 3, the most ludicrous option of them all that he cannot even begin to comprehend why it is even up for consideration.

Have a baby with John. 

Sherlock pauses and bites the inside of his lip tentatively. _Have a baby with John_.

It’s absurd really, the thought of raising a child with John. John who he is not even in a relationship with beyond their mutual arrangement to see out Sherlock’s quad-monthly heat together, John who _still_ insists on seeing boorish female betas (the latest one, Marie? Miranda? Mary?) in an attempt to live some semblance of a ‘normal’ life. But something primal in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach squirms happily a little at the thought of his and John’s child, a little girl or boy with his dark curls and John’s deep blue eyes, full of intelligence and adoring smiles and happiness. 

But would John even want to have a child with him? Would that even be a viable option for John? Sherlock knows that children were something that John had always seen himself as having one day, but was feeling as a less likely option as the years passed and he had yet to find the ‘right person’ to settle down with. Maybe this child could show John that he needn't seek to leave Sherlock and Baker Street? That John need not search high and low for his ‘ideal mate’, that he need not continue to date all these dim-witted betas for something that Sherlock could give him too. As well as the excitement of the chase, Sherlock could also give him a _family_. 

Sherlock exhales gently and feels his lips curve in some degree of a smile. It’s the perfect solution really, John would get what he wants (excitement, danger, home, family, _baby_ ) and Sherlock also (John). He needs to inform John as soon as possible, if only to cut John’s latest fling off before it can truly develop. This Maggie has been around for much longer than Sherlock had expected, pushing close to nearly 4 months now despite encountering Sherlock’s unbridled disdain every time John had bought her back to 221b. She is either so moronic that she cannot see that she is not wanted, or beyond unaffected by Sherlock’s scathing ranting; personally Sherlock prays for the former, as if it is the latter he may find himself having to admit that perhaps he has found a worthy adversary for John’s affections. 

The slam of the front door to 221is what draws Sherlock from his thoughts, followed by the unmistakable uneven pounding of John’s feet on the stairs. Sherlock rises in anticipation, preparing himself for John’s entrance to the flat and the announcement he is undoubtedly going to have to make.

The door to the flat flies open rather dramatically and John appears in the entrance, his cheeks flushed and breathing rather heavy from his apparent jog up the stairs. A beaming smile is plastered over his face and his eyes are sparkling; Sherlock smiles mentally – pleased to have caught John in such an obviously good mood – and opens his mouth to announce to him something that he hopes will push John’s good mood up even higher.

But John gets there first and Sherlock finds his jaw closing with an audible click, the entirety of his organs suddenly feeling as if they have gotten confused within his torso and that his heart is now somewhere in the vicinity of his small intestine. Within the space of a second Sherlock’s 5 hours of planning have now gone up in smoke.

“Sherlock,” John beams, one shoulder of his black coat slipping down over his bicep. “I’m getting married!”


	2. Chapter One

He can hear Mrs Hudson’s exclamations of joy from his seat in the front room of 221b, curled up tightly on the sofa with a thunderous expression on his face.

It had been 6 days since John’s announcement that he was to be a married man, and 6 days since Sherlock had failed to tell him that he was also about to be a father. 

After John had announced his surprise Sherlock had found himself unable to utter the words he’d needed to say, _'that’s great John, but just so you know I’m currently carrying your bastard child, I’m sure your future wife will enjoy hearing of how you knocked up your flatmate while you were dating her. Hope the wedding goes off without a hitch!'_ Instead he had choked out a hoarse ‘congratulations’ and slammed his way to his bedroom where he had refused to come out from for the rest of the day. 

The only comfort Sherlock is taking from the situation is the fact that John appears to sense that something is not quite right, and so has begun dedicating a little more time to making Sherlock cups of tea and less time complaining about the mess on the kitchen table, in the hope that Sherlock would just admit what the problem is. None of the awkwardness has been helped either by the fact that Sherlock has started to feel increasingly more queasy with each passing day, and just the thought of eating anything more than a slice of toast or a cream cracker sends his stomach roiling. 

Sherlock hears Mrs Hudson’s voice grow louder as the door to 221a opens presumably to let John out. She is still persisting with the infernal _cooing_ and Sherlock can hear the hateful smile in John’s voice as he answers. Eventually their chatter ceases and John’s footsteps sound on the staircase, he catches John’s warm earthy scent before John even enters the flat; another symptom of his predicament – his increasingly more acute sense of smell. 

“You eaten yet?” John asks as he walks into the kitchen, flipping the switch on the kettle and pulling out 2 mugs from the cupboard. 

“Just tea for me,” Sherlock drawls, his eyes flickering shut as he stretches his legs out along the length of the sofa, folding his hands unconsciously over his still flat stomach; his fingertips rub gently in an attempt to quell the new wave of nausea that had swept over him from a too fast movement. 

“Sherlock you can’t just live on tea,” John sighs as he walks in the front room and places Sherlock’s mug on the coffee table, taking a seat himself in his own armchair. Sherlock swallows discretely as he catches the scent of Mrs Hudson’s homemade Bakewell tarts on John’s jumper and his stomach flips in protest, bile rising in his throat. 

“I will live on whatever I see fit, now if you can cease this inconsequential chatter I am trying to think!” he snaps, breathing slowly through his nose and counting backwards from 10, a method he has discovered to be extremely effective in warding off unwanted sickness. 

“Fine, fine,” John placates, lifting his own mug to his mouth and taking a sip of tea. “But I just thought I’d say that Mary is coming over later so if you could see yourself cheering up a bit before then I’d be very grateful.” 

Sherlock’s eyes snap open and he turns his head to the side, peering at John through narrowed lids. “Whatever is _she_ coming here for?!”

John raises an eyebrow and his mouth pulls into a tight line. 

“It may have escaped your notice considering the little you’ve said on the matter, but me and Mary are getting _married_ in the near future and we have some things to talk about. That is why she is coming here.”

Sherlock sighs and turns his head back to face the ceiling, his eyelids once again falling shut. “Dull.” 

A knock at the door cuts off John’s retort.

“It’s only me dears,” Mrs Hudson says as she steps into the flat. “You forgot to bring up some of the tarts John when you left –”

Sherlock’s eyes jolt open violently as the sweet, sickly smell of freshly baked pastry washes over him and his stomach protests. He doesn’t have time to put into practise his bulletproof nausea calming technique before he knows it’s too late. He jumps up to his feet clumsily, throwing himself over the coffee table and spilling hot tea all over the floor and his bare feet and runs from the room to John and Mrs Hudson’s shouts of his name. 

He barely has chance for his knees to hit the hard tiled floor of the bathroom before he is choking up a day’s worth of tea and stomach acid into the toilet bowl, a cold sweat soaking through the shirt on his back. 

****** 

“I don’t know why you didn’t just say if you weren’t feeling well, even the great Sherlock Holmes gets ill sometimes,” John says as he helps Sherlock climb weakly into bed, pulling the covers over him and brushing a callused hand over Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock sighs tiredly at the gentle touch, his sweaty hair pulling away from his too hot skin.

“You feel a little warm too, but that’s to be expected if you’re coming down with something.” John continues, his eyes displaying an amount of concern that makes Sherlock stomach flip for an entirely different reason than previously. “I think we have some peppermint tea somewhere if you think you can stomach it? It should ease the nausea a little bit.” 

Sherlock nods briefly and John smiles, his hand stroking once again over Sherlock’s forehead. “I’ll just go make you a mug then,” he says standing from his seat on the edge of the bed. “Just shout if you need anything.” 

Sherlock relaxes minutely into the mattress and rubs the heel of one palm into his eye socket. He is quite frankly exhausted, he never remembered violent vomiting to be so tiring, not that he remembered much of his drug filled days admittedly. Why anyone would chose to voluntarily inflict this on their own person he has no idea, he had never hated his omega biology so much as he had curled up on that bathroom floor, weak and vulnerable. 

The soft sound of voices echo down the hallway and Sherlock catches the floral scent of sweet peas mixed in with John’s earthy alpha smell.

 _Mary_. 

John’s scent and voice become a little louder as he moves from the kitchen towards Sherlock’s room; Sherlock closes his eyes and feigns sleep as John opens the door.

“You awake? Sherlock?” John asks gently, closing the door softly behind him and moving over to the bed.

Sherlock hums in reply and opens his eyes once again, blinking slowly. John smiles and takes a seat back on the edge of the bed once more, placing the mug on the side table. 

“Feeling any better?” he asks, and Sherlock shakes his head. His stomach is still rolling uncomfortably but the nausea is easing slightly; not that it won’t be back, and probably 10 times worse than before.

“Not really.”

John purses his mouth a little and the previous concern flashes back into his eyes. “Well drink that and see if that helps. And I mean drink it Sherlock, don’t just let it sit there and go cold, I know what you’re like.”

Sherlock smiles thinly and shifts to sit up more against the pillows, reaching over to pick up the mug of tea from the bedside table and taking a cautious sip, the liquid warm and slightly bitter. Satisfied with Sherlock’s compliance, John stands again and straightens out his jumper. 

“Mary’s here so we’ll just be sat out front alright? Just shout if you start to feel worse. Knowing you you’ll shout just for the sake of it anyway,” John chuckles, running a hand through his hair roughly. “I’ll come and see how you are before we go to bed okay? Just try and get some sleep, it’ll make you feel better I promise,” he says moving over to the door again and stepping through. “Goodnight Sherlock.”

“Goodnight John,” Sherlock murmurs as the door clicks shut, one hand smoothing self consciously over his belly, for a moment he thinks that he can feel the start of a small swell already. 

****** 

The next week passes in a blur of persistent morning sickness, John’s worried mothering and Mary’s constant presence in the flat. Sherlock does his best to confine himself to his bedroom so he doesn’t have to endure the happiness of a recently engaged couple planning their wedding, while his body is rebelling against everything that he does; but after 4 days he simply cannot stand it anymore and takes up camp on the sofa, curled up miserably in one of Mrs Hudson’s knitted blankets. 

John is busy fussing with lunch in the kitchen and so Sherlock is left to Mary’s company only. He watches her silently as she flicks through one of the many wedding magazines that have now made their way into the flat.

She’s nothing special really, mousey haired with little make up on her pale, English rose skin. Her eyes are a muddy green and her lips a little thin, and Sherlock honestly cannot see what John sees in her plain beta self. But then again females have always been a mystery to Sherlock – except for Irene maybe, but only because in Irene he’d seen himself.

Mary though, he sees nothing of himself in Mary. 

Mary is nice and sweet and gentle, she works at a local nursery and teaches art at the local college on an evening once a week. She is tolerant of Sherlock (at least to an extent) even though it is quite clear she does not like him, and only puts up with him for John’s sake. Over the 4 months of their acquaintance he could only describe their relationship as an all out power struggle for John’s attention, and now that she has that ring on her finger Sherlock can see in her eyes that she believes she has won, when really all it would take is just a few choice words for Sherlock to bring her house of cards falling down around her. 

Sherlock smiles smugly at the thought of her expression if he were just to come right out with it, her devastated face if she knew the truth about his and John’s relationship; _‘you may think you have him, but while you sit there lost in your magazines and thoughts of churches and dresses; I am currently gestating your fiancé’s child, who do you think he would pick if he knew that fact?’_

John enters from the kitchen balancing 3 plates of sandwiches in his hands, he hands the first to Mary who looks up from her magazine and takes the offered plate with a bright grin, which John returns unconsciously as he places his own on the table. He then turns to Sherlock on the sofa and holds out the proffered plate.

“You’re eating it, no excuses,” he says sternly. “It’s only bread and butter so you can’t claim the filling disagrees with you.”

Sherlock sighs but sits up and takes the sandwich, sniffing it briefly under John’s watchful eye before taking a bite. He pauses a moment waiting for the foetus to announce it’s displeasure, but when no bile rises he swallows and eats the rest of it fast enough to only succeed in giving himself indigestion. 

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” John says as he sits down to his own lunch. Mary giggles softly and flips a page in her magazine. 

Sherlock huffs and rolls over to face the back of the sofa, curling up and doing his best to ignore the sound of idle chatter of the sickening happy couple at the table. He buries his face in the cushion underneath his head and feels himself drifting off to sleep quite unintentionally. 

****** 

When he wakes Mary is gone and the sun has started to set, casting a warm orange glow throughout Baker Street. Sherlock can hear John washing up in the kitchen, the sound of water swirling as he rinses the dishes. Sherlock rolls onto his back and places his hands flat over his abdomen. If he was anyone else he wouldn’t have noticed the slight thickening at the waist but it’s there, most definitely. 

He knows it won’t be much longer until he’ll be unable to hide his ‘condition’ even from the most unobservant of people, let along John who since the incident with the tea, and the tarts and the _vomiting_ has been keeping a closer eye on him. John will be the first to notice, if not only for the fact that next week will arrive and there will be a severe lack of a _heat_ to deal with, he’ll have to come up with a way to remove himself from the flat for a significant period of time, a case maybe, one where John will not be able to follow him. John will protest but he’ll let Sherlock be, even if it will be the first time in over a year that Sherlock will not be with John during his oestrus. 

“Awake then sleepy head?” John asks as he seats himself down in his chair, fresh cup of tea in hand. “Thought I’d have to carry you to bed for a while there.”

Sherlock grunts and rolls over on his side to face John. “Mary gone I take it?”

John nods and cups both of his hands around his mug. “We’ve er, set a date. For the wedding. 28th December. Christmas wedding you see, Mary wants snow.”

Sherlock swallows thickly and flicks his eyes away from John to the window, the one furthest from him open slightly to let in the warm summer breeze. A blackbird sings happily from nearby. 

“Nice,” he says flatly.

“Yeah,” John sighs, his gaze moving off Sherlock to stare out of the window as well. “I thought so too.”

****** 

3 days later John walks in on Sherlock midway through packing his suitcase, 10 days worth of clothing lies scattered over the bed in haphazard piles that only make sense in Sherlock’s head.

“What are you doing?” John says and Sherlock turns from the ordering of his sock index to raise an eyebrow in John’s direction. 

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Packing a suitcase, now stop avoiding the question,” John replies, his arms folding over his chest pointedly as he falls into a military stance, shoulders straight and legs spread ever so slightly. His jaw raised. 

“A case in Paris requires my most urgent attention,” Sherlock answers, turning back and continuing to pack his clothes methodically. He can feel John’s gaze boring into the back of his head, confused and questioning. 

“And where did this case come from? You haven’t had a case for 2 weeks!”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says, managing to inject as much disdain into his voice as needed for it to be believable. He hears John relax minutely behind him, his feet shuffling on the carpet as he eases his stance a little.

“Since when do you take cases in France for Mycroft?”

Sherlock sighs and drops the shirts in his hand into the case, turning back to face John once again. 

“Since I have been stuck in the flat for the past fortnight listening to you and that _woman_ bleat on about dresses and corsages and bloody 19th century manor houses! Excuse me if I have heard enough about flower arrangements to last a lifetime!”

John’s brow instantly furrows into a scowl and his jaw twitches in the way it does when Sherlock has hit a nerve. “Now hang on!”

“Oh go away John! You are distracting me from my sock index.” Sherlock huffs and picks up a pair of trousers from beside the suitcase, folding them over his arm once before placing them beside his neatly packed shirts. 

John falls silent for a while behind him, despite the fact that Sherlock can sense the anger radiating off him in waves, the sharp scent of adrenaline mixing in with his woody base notes.

“I suppose you have forgotten what next week is then?” John eventually bites out hotly. Sherlock feels his mouth tug into a smug smile despite himself. 

“If you are talking about my heat then no, I haven’t forgotten. Although considering the circumstances I don’t see how any of it is your business. I’m not sure Margery would approve to know her fiancé enjoys servicing his omega flatmate through his heat,” Sherlock snarks, throwing his silk robe into the suitcase a little too viciously, messing up his neatly ordered clothing piles.

“Oh so it’s going to be like that then?” John snaps. “You’re just going to be a child about it? There is no case is there? You’re just fucking off to Paris to shag some random alpha in the hope that you’ll get one over me, well guess what Sherlock? It isn’t going to work! Have fun with Victor or Irene or whoever it is that’s out there at the moment, I’ll see you when you get back,” he snarls, the slam of Sherlock’s bedroom door echoing pointedly throughout the flat. 

Sherlock sighs and drops the pyjama bottoms in his hand to the bed as he rubs a palm over his face, he curses softly under his breath as something unpleasant bubbles up in his chest. He takes a moment to compose himself before bending down to pick up the abandoned pyjamas and resumes packing the rest of his things, trying his hardest not to think about the twisting in his stomach and what it could possibly mean. 

****** 

Paris is hot in early July and a soft breeze blows in from the Seine through the open balcony doors. Sherlock reaches for his phone on the bed and switches it back on again, biting his lip as it chimes once with a text.

_**use protection.** _

Sherlock sighs and shakes his head sadly, catching sight of his shirtless form in the mirror opposite and the small bump rising from out of in between his hip bones. 

Too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Paris.


	3. Chapter Two

The one thing John was right about was that he was indeed meeting another alpha, just not for the reason John had assumed. 

Irene is still as striking as she had been the first time Sherlock had laid eyes on her, even fully clothed. Her long curled hair is loose over her shoulders and a large sunhat sits artfully on her head, Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses covering her eyes; she smiles lopsidedly as she draws a long red cigarette holder to her equally ruby red lips and takes a drag. Sherlock can smell her bitter chocolate alpha musk from 10 metres away.

“How delightfully authentic,” he drawls as he draws a seat up to the ornate table outside of the twee, bohemian café Irene had chosen for their meeting.

“As they say,” she replies with a smirk, exhaling smoke out of the corner of her mouth. “When in Paris.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and undoes the button of his suit jacket out of habit, the material beginning to strain slightly now over his stomach when he sits. Irene’s thin eyebrows rise ever so marginally over the rim of her sunglasses.

“Now what brings you to France Sherlock dear? I doubt it is for the warm weather judging by the fact your cheeks are a little too red to be natural.”

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders and leans back in his seat, tapping his fingers against the warm metal of the armrests. “Maybe I just fancied a holiday?”

Irene leans her cigarette holder against the ash tray in the centre of the table before reaching up to take off her sunglasses; her bright blue eyes stare at Sherlock intently, sea blue and sparkling. 

“And I suppose I am here to tell you all about the sites? I would suggest we go for dinner but it looks as if somebody got there before me.”

Sherlock stares back defiantly, unblinking. He’d forgotten how probing Irene’s stare was, how intelligent and unwavering; he always imagined that this is how people felt when he turned his focus on them, small and vulnerable. Like an insect under a microscope. No escape. 

“How’s John?” she asks curiously.

Sherlock raises his jaw and refuses to let his fingers tighten their grasp on the chair. “Engaged.” 

Irene’s stare softens considerably and Sherlock tears his eyes away, he doesn’t want pity, especially from Irene of all people. He didn’t come all the way to Paris just for Irene to feel sorry for him. 

“Oh Sherlock – ”

“Don’t,” Sherlock snaps, turning his glare back onto Irene. They stare at each other for a moment before Sherlock squirms uncomfortably in his seat. “I need a cigarette.”

“I don’t think that’s wise do you?” Irene says, her eyebrow arching pointedly as she drops her eyes to Sherlock’s stomach. 

Sherlock feels his arm curling over his stomach without his permission, as if he could protect his unborn child from Irene’s unrelenting gaze by that alone. Irene smiles weakly before turning her gaze back to the ashtray and picking up her discarded cigarette.

“I take it John doesn’t know?”

“No.”

“And you’re currently hiding out in Paris because right now you are supposed to be in the middle of your heat and if you’d stayed at the flat your condition would have become quite apparent very quickly?”

“Yes.” 

“Well,” Irene sighs, shrugging her bare shoulders slightly as she inhales quickly on her cigarette. “What are you going to do about it?”

Sherlock breathes out slowly and runs a hand through his hair self consciously. “I have no idea.” 

Irene smiles and Sherlock feels his own lips tug up in response against his will.

“Well it’s a good job you have someone to talk to about it then isn’t it?”

***** 

They eat dinner at an expensive restaurant near to the Champ de Mars, the clientele a mixture of honeymooning tourists and adventurous locals. Irene wears a slinky, silk navy blue dress that brings out her wide eyes.

“Escargot?” Irene purrs, picking up the leather bound menu from where the waiter had placed it on the table. “Or is that a little exotic for your stomach right now?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and picks up his own menu, scanning his eyes up and down over the curling script. “Even if it wasn’t I have no wish to consume slimy, garden molluscs.” 

“I believe they’re a good source of protein,” Irene answers, raising a perfectly sculpted eyebrow and allowing her gaze to fall to Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock huffs and drops his menu back to the table, folding his arms over his chest.

“I suppose you’ll be doing this for the remainder of the week am I correct?” 

Irene smirks and allows her eyes to drift back to the list in her hands. “Well somebody has to look after you now that John isn’t here.”

Sherlock scowls, his brow furrowing deeply at Irene’s implication.

“I can look after myself quite adequately, I think you’ll find.”

Irene pauses and flicks her eyes back over to look at Sherlock, her playful smirk dropping a little at the sight of Sherlock’s haughty manner. She sighs slightly and drops her menu to the table also, folding her arms over the leather cover and leaning over towards Sherlock. 

“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I didn’t mean to imply what I did. It’s just difficult – for me –”

“Don’t Irene,” Sherlock interrupts, his eyes not wavering as he looks across at Irene’s pained face. Her scent is strong and thick and alluring, the bittersweet smell a stark contrast to John’s earthy notes. “Please don’t.”

Irene exhales slowly and nods once, dropping her eyes back down as she leans back in her seat and picks up her menu once more, her long, painted fingers biting a little harder into the leather than previous. Sherlock slumps minutely in his chair, unfolding his arms and allowing one hand to brush gently over his stomach before turning the page to study the hors d’ouevres.

A serveur arrives not long after to take their orders, both Sherlock and Irene making their requests in rapid fire French. Sherlock scowls a little when Irene amends his request for a bottle of their finest Bordeux to a bottle of sparkling water. 

“I thought you’d know better,” she scolds as the serveur moves away. “Anyone would think you didn’t want this baby.”

Sherlock huffs and allows his eyes to scan over the rest of the patrons, most of them mid to late thirties and alpha/omega couples, over half of them out to celebrate some sort of anniversary. 

“What makes you say that I want it?” he asks flatly, flicking his eyes back to stare at Irene. She shrugs one shoulder lazily, her eyes considering as she scans them over Sherlock’s form in reply. 

“Well,” she drawls, meeting Sherlock’s gaze once more. “If you didn’t want to keep it, it would be gone already. You can’t even use the excuse that you haven’t been able to get an appointment at a clinic because if you’d had to wait for the 2 weeks that you have known, you’d have taken matters into your own hands and aborted the baby yourself, especially considering the fact that John is now engaged. Why would you risk him discovering it’s existence if you have no plan to keep it?” she questions, lacing her fingers together as she rests her wrists against the edge of the tabletop. 

“On top of that there is also the glaringly obvious fact that you can’t seem to stop yourself from touching your stomach.” 

Sherlock pauses, suddenly becoming aware of the hand resting gently over his midsection quite unconsciously. His fingers tighten slightly before he slowly begins to smooth his palm over the small bump. He curses himself mentally for succumbing to his hated omega instincts, for allowing Irene an in for her observations, but he finds himself unable to cease the soft caress and the soothing feeling it brings with it. 

“Hormones and biology Irene, that’s all it is.”

“But it’s not,” she sighs, her words soft and understanding. “I know you like to believe you’re above emotion but that’s not true and you know it Sherlock.”

Sherlock laughs weakly, shaking his head and shifting in his chair as Irene takes a breath. He can feel his pulse start to raise irrationally, a sick feeling building in his stomach. 

“It’s John’s baby,” she says quietly. “How could you not love John’s baby.” 

“Stop!” Sherlock snaps under his breath, his eyes narrowing in annoyance. “Whether it’s John’s baby or not has nothing to do with it.”

Irene smiles sadly and shakes her head.

“If this was anyone else’s baby would you be sat here with me right now?” she asks. “You wouldn’t even be here if it was mine.” she laughs joylessly answering her own question, she shrugs her shoulders as her eyes flick down to look at her clasped hands. “When you first saw the test what did you think? What did you want?”

Sherlock swallows, his brow relaxing as he looks blankly at the small flickering candle at the centre of their table. _More romantic_ he thinks briefly, a flash of John’s bright grin and sparkling eyes sparking in his mind. “John,” he murmurs. “Just John.” 

Irene’s lips twitch upwards minutely and she leans back in her chair, hands uncurling as she flexes her painted fingertips. 

“And there you go.” 

Sherlock shakes his head and rests his elbows on the arms of his chair, steeping his hands in front of him. 

“But it doesn’t _matter_ ,” he sneers, thinking about the bridal magazines stacked on their coffee table, John’s sparkling eyes looking at another. “I can’t have him now, not that that _woman_ is there.”

Irene shrugs her left shoulder and drums her fingernails on the table, looking up at Sherlock from under her long eyelashes. 

“No,” she says thoughtfully, her lips pursed and red as sin. “But you can have his child, and nobody Sherlock can take that away from you. Not John, not her, not your brother. Nobody.” 

“I don’t want to lose him,” Sherlock answers, his voice a low rumble in the restaurant chatter. Irene smiles and plays with the base of her empty wine glass.

“Sherlock love, I’m not sure that there is anything you could do that would make John leave.”

Sherlock laughs bitterly, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He thinks about John and Mary and John’s quest for domestic bliss, the kind he won’t find in the walls with 221b. 

“But that’s the point Irene, he’s already leaving.”

The waiter chooses that moment to arrive with their food; Sherlock and Irene stare at each other from either side of the table as the serveur sets their dishes in front of them and pours 2 glasses of the sparkling water. Irene flicks her gaze away from Sherlock to shoot the young beta a flirty smile as he retreats, before turning back to him and picking up her wine glass. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“When are you going to tell him?” she asks, tipping the glass from side to side, watching the bubbles fizz.

Sherlock picks up his knife and fork and plays absently with a mushroom on his plate. “Ideally after the child is born.” 

Irene huffs and shakes her head amusedly, taking a sip of her water and sighing.

“So I suppose I shall be visiting you in your Swiss hideout for the next 5 months? Sherlock this is something you can’t run away from, he’ll have to find out.”

“And he will,” Sherlock says slowly, pausing his ministrations and looking over at Irene pointedly. He takes in her full pursed lips and sculpted, arched brows. “But not until I wish him to.”

Irene sighs but doesn’t answer, instead turning to her own food. Sherlock relaxes in his seat, exhaling slowly in what he feels to be a degree of relief. He stabs at a piece of chicken and they eat in relative silence, the quiet punctured only by the sound of knives and forks and glass on wood. 

“You know, I’ve heard a rumour about several paintings disappearing from the Musée d’Orsay,” Irene says after a while, her smile flirty and playful as she swirls the last of her water in the bottom of her wine glass. “That’s if you’re interested of course?”

Sherlock feels his lips tug into a matching smirk, the enjoyable thrill of a potential case buzzing under his skin instead of the sick ache of the past few days. He drops his cutlery to his half empty plate with a clatter. 

“Tell me everything you know.”

***** 

Sherlock spends the next 5 days alternating between chasing after criminals in the early evening, coffee with Irene outside of the Louvre and curling around the toilet bowl coughing his guts up. 

In the grand scale of things it isn’t a bad holiday at all. 

***** 

England is good 10 degrees cooler when Sherlock arrives back at Baker Street the following Tuesday, the taxi dropping him off outside of the front door to 221b. 

He lugs his suitcase up the 17 stairs with a little difficulty – being careful not to break the bottle of gin for Mrs Hudson in his hand luggage – and opens the door to the flat to find John sat on the sofa reading a newspaper quietly. He drops his bags to the floor and John looks up at him, his brow furrowing in annoyance. Sherlock narrows his eyes in confusion and John stands up, making his way to the kitchen.

“I take it Irene was well?”

Sherlock turns to look at the mirror over the fireplace and curses under his breath at the small smudge of ruby red lipstick smeared on his pristine, white shirt collar from when Irene had kissed him goodbye on the cheek at the airport; the red too bright against the monochrome of his suit. 

Momentarily he feels pride at John’s burgeoning observation skills, the knowledge that John indeed _has_ being paying attention to him, but that is immediately crushed by the need to fix the wild assumptions no doubt careering through John’s head. 

“John –”

But the slamming of the second door to the flat is all Sherlock gets in response.

***** 

It’s another 3 hours before John returns and Sherlock has almost worn a line in the floorboards from his continuous pacing up and down in the flat. 

He stops, facing the window when he hears the flat door close gently and John’s footsteps as he enters. He takes a shallow breath and waits for John to make the first move. He doesn’t have to wait long.

“I’m sorry. About earlier,” John sighs and Sherlock turns around slowly to face him. “I overreacted and I’m – I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock answers softly, his voice thin and flat. John holds a hand up shaking his head.

“You were right, it’s none of my business who you – er spent the week with, it’s okay, it’s all okay.”

Sherlock nods once and shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot before stalking towards the kitchen, his feet taking him away from what his mind had already deemed to be a potentially painful conversation. 

“Tea,” he says switching the kettle on and slamming about in the cupboards unnecessarily loudly while looking for mugs and teabags. “I’ll make us tea.” He makes a grab for the sugar when John clears his throat behind him. 

“Sh – erm Paris has done you good. You look – good, a lot better than when you left. Not as ill, think you might have put on a couple of pounds too.” 

Sherlock places the sugar on the worktop and leans against the counter with his palms. Why is this so awkward? Why are _they_ so awkward? They aren’t supposed to be awkward, not with each other anyway.

“The weather was good,” he answers, resisting the urge to rub a hand comfortingly over his stomach, for his or the baby’s comfort he wasn’t quite sure. “As was the food.” 

“Good, I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

The kettle clicking off breaks the tense silence and suddenly John is stood beside him. 

“Why don’t you go sit down and I’ll finish the tea, I’d imagine you’ve had a long day,” he smiles with fake cheerfulness, the crinkles around his eyes not quite scrunching with the rise of his cheeks. 

Sherlock nods and does his best to smile in reply but he can only imagine that it comes out rather strained judging by the look in John’s eyes. 

“Thank you,” he says and makes his way back to the living room, dropping down on to sofa and pressing the heels of his palms against his eye sockets. He sighs tiredly as the gentle sounds of John’s tea making echo in the flat and longs for a time when it was all a little less complicated. 

***** 

The awkward tension begins to ease in the first 3 days after Sherlock’s return from Paris, possibly aided by the arrival of a new case. A serial killer; Sherlock hasn’t had one of those for a while. Ever since Moriarty, London’s criminal classes have been lacking a certain finesse, a certain style, which makes solving them all the more easy and all the more dull. But this case, no this case is _exciting_ and most decidedly not dull in the slightest.

It’s just a shame that the Parisian weather seems to have followed Sherlock back home across the channel and has gained strength along the way. The heat is no way made any better by the fact that unlike in Paris, there is a severe lack of a cooling breeze to stifle the crippling heat, and London sweats and groans and blurs in the shimmering heat haze rising up from the street. 

Sherlock feels sluggish and slow in the burning heat despite his week basking in the Paris sunshine, and his frustration builds daily as the case drags on and on and on after his failure to deduce the most simple of patterns. By day 5 Sherlock is a giant ball of vicious rage, and even John has given up on trying to placate him after getting shouted at for a good 5 minutes for suggesting that Sherlock should maybe drink a glass of water. 

On the 6th day, Sherlock arrives at Scotland Yard feeling slightly more ill than he had when his morning sickness had been at his worse. His heart rate is racing and he is sweating profusely, but the case is still ongoing and something silly as a little sun isn’t going to stop him solving it. 

He feels a little better when he enters Scotland Yard itself and the air conditioning rushes over him. He makes his way automatically to Lestrade’s office where he enters without knocking, drawing an exasperated sigh from the Detective Inspector.

“Are you ever gonna knock before you come barging in here?”

Sherlock scans his eyes distractedly over Lestrade’s office before stalking over to the desk and lowering himself down into the seat opposite. His head spins a little, black spots flicker in his vision and he has to close his eyes to compose himself for a moment.

“Sherlock are you alright?” 

“I’m fine Lestrade, in fact I am more than fine, I am wonderful,” Sherlock answers dryly, opening his eyes again when he is sure that the black spots have dissipated. “Now what was this you were saying about a development on the phone? I hope this is worth my time, I was closing in on the location of the next murder.” 

Lestrade sighs and stands from behind the desk. 

“You’d better come with me, forensics have come up with a fit of the weapon, I’ve never seen anything like it before.” 

Sherlock stands with some difficulty and Lestrade furrows his brow but says nothing. The world tilts slightly as Sherlock follows Lestrade from the office and a wave of nausea washes over him, leaving him feeling unnaturally clammy. He stumbles clumsily and Lestrade grabs at his arm to steady him.

“Easy! Sherlock, I really don’t think you’re okay,” he says, but Sherlock just blinks at him vacantly, his vision swimming in and out of focus. 

“I am _fine_ Lestrade! Now are you going to show me the weapon or not?!” he snarls, rubbing a hand over his brow and sneering at the clammy sweat left on his palm. The room rights itself somewhat and he wrenches his arm out of Lestrade’s hand.

Lestrade rolls his eyes resignedly and leads Sherlock over to the pin board set up with all the information relating to the case. Lestrade pauses them in front of several sketches of a bizarre looking knife, the main blade ringed by several smaller knives all of varying sizes. 

“Never seen anything like it,” Lestrade mutters as Sherlock takes a cautious step closer to the drawings. 

His head is starting to pound uncomfortably and the small pencil lines detailing the features of the knife begin to blur a little at the edges. Sherlock blinks rapidly, trying to clear the fog from his eyes, but all he succeeds in accomplishing is a wave of nausea and a see-sawing feeling in his legs, the motion only increasing as he feels a large hand grab at his shoulder.

“Sherlock.” Lestrade’s voice is distant and Sherlock attempts to turn towards him, but before he can face the detective he feels his knees buckle and sees black swims in his vision again. 

He feels his body begin to sink to the floor against his will despite the hands grasping at him tightly, shouts of indistinguishable voices roar in his ears. 

The black spots flicker rapidly, overwhelming him until he can see no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was a little nervous about this chapter, as I am the next one. But I think if I don't post it now, I'll end up editing it into oblivion.


	4. Chapter Three

The room is white and cool and Sherlock sighs sleepily, digging his head further back into the pillow underneath him. The pillow is soft, very soft, the thick down helping to sooth the ache he can feel at his temples; a cool sheet drawn over his body. He can hear a steady beeping and birds singing prettily from outside the window, finches maybe or sparrows – 

“And just what the bloody _hell_ were you thinking of Sherlock?”

John’s voice breaks through the pleasant birdsong and Sherlock groans at the throbbing pain in his head, his eyes squinting shut against the anger he can feel ready to explode from John the moment he feels Sherlock is well enough to take it. 

“Heat exhaustion? Really? Why do you insist on making yourself ill Sherlock, why?”

Sherlock allows his eyes to open slowly and turns his head on the pillow to look at John, John who is dressed in a simple white shirt and linen trousers, his arms folded over his chest and a scowl etched on his face.

“How long have you been here?” Sherlock croaks, a sudden panic welling up inside at the idea that John _knows_ , that some idiotic doctor has given away his secret without his permission. 

“About 5 minutes,” John answers flatly. “Thankfully Greg realised you were ill enough to need hospitalisation otherwise it could have been fully blown heatstroke by now.”

Sherlock sighs, rolling his eyes and gingerly moving a hand to push his sweat damp hair away from his forehead. “Don’t be so dramatic –”

“Dramatic?! Are you fucking kidding me! Heatstroke is no laughing matter Sherlock!”

“But it’s not heatstroke!” Sherlock snaps, closing his eyes and riding through the wave of nausea brought on by the spike of pain to his head. He takes a couple of deep breaths, inhaling through the nose, exhaling through the mouth. “When can I leave?”

“Leave?” John scoffs, shaking his head disbelievingly. “Leave, you must be joking!”

Sherlock’s eyes flash open and he glares at John furiously through the throbbing at his forehead. “I have a case!” he protests. “I cannot laze around in this vile place while Scotland Yard cock up yet another one of their bumbling investigations!”

John scowls and sets his jaw tight. 

“Sod the bloody case! For once in your life will you just do as you’re bloody well told! I am a _doctor_ and so help me I will call your brother and make sure you cannot step one foot outside of this hospital –”

A sharp cough from the doorway silences John’s tirade before it can fully develop any weight. Sherlock tears his gaze away from John and over to the doctor stood in the doorway, the grassy, vegetation scent giving away his beta gender. The mounting anger Sherlock had felt vibrating under his skin, suddenly bows under the previous wave of panic; he watches out of the corner of his eye as John turns to look at the doctor with a frustrated look on his face. 

“Mr Holmes, my name is Dr Williams and I’ve been overseeing your care for the past few hours,” the doctor says, moving further into the room once he has its occupant’s attention. He holds a clipboard in one hand and Sherlock feels his insides squirm unpleasantly, knowing exactly what information the papers in his hand will contain and just how much damage they can cause. “Now Mr Holmes, there have been a few things that have come up while we were performing some routine tests that we were wondering if you were aware of.”

Sherlock’s heart begins to race harder, adrenaline releasing into his body at an alarming rate. He normally welcomes the rush that the hormone brings, fight or flight, a neon signal saying ‘DANGER’ flashing brightly, but this time all it brings is a sick, heavy feeling in the pit of his abdomen. He glances over towards John and holds his breath. John’s brow is heavily wrinkled as he looks over at Dr Williams, concern and severe worry is written in every line on his face, and Sherlock’s stomach roils at the knowledge that this whole thing is about to be blown wide open whether he wants it to be or not, that John will not let this go even if Sherlock forces him from the room for the upcoming discussion. 

“What sort of –” John starts before Sherlock quickly silences him with a murmur of his name. 

“John.”

Dr Williams turns his gaze away from John and back to Sherlock; his eyebrow raised wordlessly asking permission for the following talk to take place. Sherlock exhales a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding and nods his head wearily, there’s no escape now, no looking back. He closes his eyes and prepares himself for John’s outburst. _No more secrets._

Dr Williams nods once in acknowledgment before turning to look down at the clipboard in his hands.

“Mr Holmes, we were wondering if you were aware that you are pregnant.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicker open and he pointedly avoids John’s face as he hears John turn abruptly to look at him.

“What?! What the – ” John asks, shock the most evident emotion in his voice as he struggles to execute even the most basic of sentences. “Sherlock? _What?!_ Jesus fucking Christ, Irene –”

“Approximately 18 weeks,” Dr Williams continues, his eyes not leaving Sherlock’s despite the horrific choking noise the man beside his patient makes.

Sherlock swallows thickly and nods, he can feel his hands shaking a little where they rest on top of the sheets. He sees Dr Williams relax minutely and hears him say something about scheduling an ultrasound for later that afternoon before quietly leaving; but Sherlock is too busy staring at the pale faced John blinking rapidly, a hand placed firmly over his mouth, to fully absorb the information. Sherlock feels his heart drop in anticipation of the wrath John is about to unleash on him, the knowledge that John is about to leave him. 

“So,” John says weakly, closing his eyes and exhaling through his nose. Sherlock notes the tremor in his hands. “Not Irene’s.”

“No,” Sherlock murmurs thinly in reply, his hand coming up to instinctively curl protectively over his stomach. The flesh beneath the blankets now rounded to fit in the curve of his trembling palm. 

John breathes out again harshly and finally allows his gaze to rove over Sherlock’s supine form. His eyes widen fractionally when he reaches Sherlock’s abdomen, clearly only noticing for the first time the slight swell under the sheets. Sherlock inhales deeply.

“Is it mine?” John croaks, fingers pressed against his mouth.

Sherlock scowls and his hand tightens fractionally over his belly. His terror gives way again to anger, completing the rollercoaster of emotions that he has exhaustedly managed to cycle through in under an hour.

“Of _course_ it’s yours!” he spits, his lip curling unattractively at the side. “What do you think I am? Some omega whore who will throw themselves at any willing alpha?! For someone with some degree of intelligence you are so unbelievably dense sometimes John!”

John stands up abruptly, the chair he had been seated on crashing backwards to the floor with a loud crack. His hands are clenched tight into fists if only to stem the uncontrollable shaking that is wracking both of his arms.

“I can’t – no, I just, I can’t deal with this right now Sherlock, I need – I need to go,” John chokes out turning on his heal and marching for the door. Sherlock struggles against the wave of dizziness to prop himself up in the bed, his chest heaving violently with a burning ache under his sternum.

“John!” he shouts horrified, but the slam of the door is the only response he gets. 

*****

2 hours later and John is still missing from Sherlock’s bedside.

A nurse has however appeared instead, gently informing Sherlock that she is to take him down for the ultrasound scan. He nods distractedly and allows the nurse to help him up and to the waiting wheelchair; he cannot find the strength or will to berate the nurse for treating him like some helpless omega, incapable of walking even the shortest of journeys down 2 floors to the ultrasound room. He cannot even find the concern he should be feeling for the wellbeing of his child. All his mind can seem to focus on is the fact that John isn’t _there_ , that John had run away and hadn’t come back, that he had finally done the one thing everyone had told him he’d do from the start and driven John _away_. The worry plays like a loop, over and over in his head and he wishes more than anything that he had paid more heed to his brother’s warning; caring really does have no advantage. 

The wheelchair leans slightly to one side as the nurse pushes him slowly down the corridor towards the lift. He can hear the sounds of the sick and dying permeating through closed doors, and Sherlock finds himself irrationally wishing that John was with him, that John hadn’t left him to face this on his own. 

As they move into the Obstetrics Unit the sounds of the ill give way to screams of pain and cries of new life; the piercing wails from newborn babies instead of the moans of the dying. Something in their tiny shrieks causes Sherlock’s hands to clam up and the hair on the back of his neck to prickle, and he wishes more than ever that he had John stood by his side, reassuring him that it would all be alright. The whole thing suddenly feels horrifyingly real, distressingly so, and he hasn’t felt so terrified since that night in Dartmoor with the phantom ghost of a hound from hell breathing down his neck.

The door to the ultrasound room helps to close out the horrific noises from the rooms down the corridor and Sherlock finds himself being able to breathe a little easier. The nurse, a brown haired omega, instructs him to climb onto the padded bed in the middle of the room. 

The blue paper covering crinkles unattractively as he lies down on the bed and the nurse smiles at him warmly as she announces she is just leaving to find the technician. Sherlock nods distractedly and toys with the hem of the hospital issue pyjamas they’d dressed him in when he arrived, the green and white check unflattering against his pasty pallor. 

Less than 2 minutes later the technician arrives – beta, unmarried, scent a mixture of peonies and lily of the valley – and asks him to pull up the front of his pyjama shirt while she configures the ultrasound machine. He does so with clumsy fingers, his body not wishing to co-operate with his mind’s instructions.

There is a knock at the door as the technician pulls on a pair of latex gloves, and Sherlock sighs in annoyance, fully expecting to the see the brown haired omega nurse at the door; but instead his eyes widen when the scent of earth and sandalwood permeates the room and the door opens to reveal a sheepish John Watson, his hair ruffled wildly and a small coffee stain on the hem of his shirt. 

“Is it erm, is it okay if I –?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answers earnestly, saving John from trying to string the rest of his sentence together. “Please.”

John nods and smiles weakly, moving into the room and cutting off the pained scream that echoes out in the hallway as he closes the door. The technician turns back towards the ultrasound, busying herself with something as not to disturb what she observes is quite obviously a private moment.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry Sherlock,” John whispers as he pulls up a chair beside the bed, his hand automatically reaching to hold Sherlock’s, prising his fingers from their tight grasp on the edge of the bed. “I shouldn’t have left you, I’m sorry.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, to tell John that it’s fine, it’s all fine, just as long as he promises to always come back; but the technician turns back to them with a tube of gel and the wand in hand.

“Shall we see if we can find this baby then?” she says brightly, rubbing the gel tube in her hands to try and warm it up before unscrewing the lid. “This might still be cold I’m afraid,” she apologises as she squirts a thin layer onto Sherlock’s exposed stomach. 

Sherlock’s stomach jumps reflexively from the cold and Sherlock hears John giggle quietly by his ear. The sound helps him to relax somewhat and he squeezes his fingers tighter around John’s.

The technician quickly places the transducer over Sherlock’s belly and begins smoothing it through the gel, heating it up even further. Sherlock turns his head to look over at the monitor on the side of the machine and his brow furrows at the grey and white blobs flickering over the screen. 

“It looks like this one doesn’t want to co-operate,” the technician says, curving the transducer to rest under the gentle slope of his stomach, slowly moving it from side to side.

“Sounds like somebody I know,” John replies pointedly, and Sherlock turns away from the screen to look up at John. John who is smiling down at him with mirth in his eyes, his fingers still curled tight around Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s breath catches briefly and the uncomfortable burning that had taken up under his sternum begins to fade into something a lot more bearable; John isn’t angry, a little upset but not angry, his murky blue eyes are red-rimmed but gentle and Sherlock exhales slowly in relief. He adjusts his hand in John’s and hooks his thumb around John’s index finger, pressing firmly. 

The technician makes a pleased sound and Sherlock reluctantly tears his gaze from John’s eyes to turn back to the screen.

“Looks like we’ve got him,” she says, titling the transducer side to side again until the strikingly clear image of a baby’s head appears on the monitor. “And there we are! That’s your baby.” 

Sherlock blinks owlishly at this _thing_ on the screen, this real living _being_ that he can see moving and living inside him, part of him and part of John. He watches with baited breath as the baby’s legs kick and for a moment he thinks he can feel the movement deep inside him.

“Shit, _shit_ ,” John breathes, leaning closer to Sherlock to get a better look at the monitor. “Look at him, Sherlock, look at his little legs.”

“Right little footballer you’ve got there,” the technician agrees, grinning over at John.

Sherlock laughs wetly and watches as a little foot kicks out sharply again, he resists the strong urge to reach down and rub a hand over his belly. “Well they didn’t get that from me,” he says, his voice sounding strange and thick to his own ears. He feels a stroke of a thumb run down the side of cheek and he turns back to look at John with a puzzled look on his face. 

“You’re crying,” John say softly and repeats the motion as another tear rolls down over a sharp cheekbone. Sherlock sniffs and exhales shakily raising his free hand to his face and feeling surprise when it comes away damp. He looks up and watches John’s face as John watches their baby on the monitor, studies how John’s eyes crinkle attractively at the corners and how his lips tug sideways into a lopsided smile. His heart clenches hard at the wave of emotion he suddenly feels for man, warm and sentimental. 

A loud pulsating sound then fills the room and Sherlock starts from his reverie, turning back towards the technician who is adjusting something on the machine. 

“And that’s the baby’s heartbeat,” she says cheerily, looking over them both as she holds the transducer still. 

John’s fingers tighten again over Sherlock’s and he feels John’s free hand move up to stroke through his hair softly, pushing the wild curls back from Sherlock’s forehead before leaning down and pressing his lips to Sherlock’s brow.

Sherlock allows his eyes to flutter closed and he exhales through his nose, pushing up slightly into John’s hand and lips. He inhales John’s comforting scent and allows himself the chance to indulge in the warm _safe_ feeling of John being so close and the sound of their child’s steady heartbeat.

***** 

Sherlock is tired and frustrated by the time he and John are taken back to Sherlock’s private room after hours of being prodded and poked by doctors and nurses alike. It’s late evening and the heat of the day is slowly starting to dissipate, leaving the room cool and dusky with the orange glow of the sunset. Sherlock lies on top of the sheets and huffs disdainfully at the idea of having to spend the night stuck in hospital as the doctors had suggested, ignoring the fact that he had a doctor of his own who was perfectly capable of taking care of him. 

The door opens with a quiet creak and John enters the room with a watery paper cup of hospital coffee in his hand. He moves to sit back in the chair beside the bed and takes a sip, wrinkling his nose at the bitter aftertaste before placing it down on the table beside his chair. 

“John,” Sherlock says, rolling on to his side and curling and arm under his head on top of the pillow. “I want to go home.” 

John sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair, quite clearly preparing himself for the storm he is about to endure. 

“The doctors want to keep you in overnight, it’s a good idea really, you’re still dehydrated and they want to keep an eye on you, especially considering – well y’know,” he says, nodding his head down towards where Sherlock’s shirt had bunched up slightly about his waist, revealing the small bump beneath. 

Sherlock scowls and self consciously pulls his shirt back down, curling up a little tighter on his side. 

“I am fine, the baby is fine, you heard the midwife yourself, perfectly normal.”

“I know, I know, but sometimes things can get _not_ normal pretty quickly, and being here is the best place you can be if that happens,” John reasons, leaning forward in his seat and resting his elbows on his knees, he is suddenly not the tense, scared soldier from earlier, but the concerned, in control doctor, and the difference to Sherlock is striking. 

“Please,” Sherlock replies, doing his best to inject enough helpless omega to try and appeal to John’s alpha side. John may not be an idiot to Sherlock’s manipulation, but Sherlock knows that right now – while he is ill and carrying John’s child – John’s defences will be at their weakest. 

John’s shoulders slump significantly and Sherlock does his best to hide his triumphant smile.

“Alright, alright,” John mutters, standing back up from the uncomfortable hospital chair. “I’ll see what I can do, but you better promise me you’ll do whatever I say or I’ll bring you straight back here.”

Sherlock smiles weakly and rolls onto his back, stretching luxuriously and settling back into the bed.

“I do John, I promise.”

***** 

It’s dark when they arrive back at 221b, John helps Sherlock to climb the stairs much to Sherlock’s disdain, although by the time they reach the second flight Sherlock’s protests have calmed somewhat. The heat exhaustion making its presence felt again in the cold sweat on his back and the pounding in his ears.

John guides Sherlock to sit down on the sofa before moving off to the kitchen. Sherlock sighs and rolls the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows. Despite the fact that the temperature has dropped marginally with the sunset, it is still unbelievably warm and he can feel the first stirrings of dizziness pulling at his head. 

“Here, drink this,” John says, appearing back in front of Sherlock with a glass of water. Sherlock takes it with a trembling hand.

“Slow alright, I don’t want you throwing it back up again, that’s when we’re asking for trouble.” 

Sherlock sips at the water slowly under John’s watchful eye, and gradually he begins to feel his heart rate decrease again, the cold sweat on the back of his neck drying somewhat. 

John takes the empty glass when Sherlock is finished and holds out a hand, his eyebrow raised in expectation as Sherlock scowls and rolls his eyes. 

“You promised Sherlock,” he says and curls his fingers beckoningly. Sherlock sighs and allows John to pull him up and guide him through the flat to his bedroom with a hand to his lower back. Sherlock sits on the bed and watches as John fusses around the room, opening the windows wide and moving over to the wardrobe to pull out 2 cotton sheets.

“It’s too hot for you to actually get in to bed,” John continues, draping the sheets over the end of the bed before turning to look at Sherlock, still fully clothed and staring at John blankly. “You can’t sleep like that.”

Sherlock huffs but stands wobbly from the bed, his hands moving up to start undoing the buttons of his shirt. The motion takes up far too much concentration than he would have liked and his fingers fumble clumsily as he attempts to thread the buttons through the holes. 

The content silence is broken abruptly by the chiming of John’s phone. Sherlock pauses halfway through unbuttoning his cuffs, and turns to look over at John who is staring at his phone as if it had just uttered him a death threat. His lips thin and brow furrowed. _Mary then_.

“You can answer that, don’t mind me,” Sherlock says flatly, turning back to unbutton his cuff, the movement a bit more aggressive than before. 

Sherlock hears the ringing cease and John’s clothes rustling as he replaces his phone back in his pocket and takes a step closer to Sherlock.

“It’s fine, I’ll call her back tomorrow. She’ll understand,” he says, holding his hand out to take Sherlock’s shirt as Sherlock shrugs himself out of the sleeves. He catches sight of John’s eyes automatically drifting down to his stomach and his primal omega side squirms happily – John has chosen _them_ , he’s going to _stay_ with them. 

Sherlock works his way out of his trousers, a lot tighter now than they had been previously, and hands them over to John too. He feels a wave of vulnerability rush over him unexpectedly. John has seen him like this many times – hell John has seen him _naked_ more times than any other person he knows – but in that moment John’s eyes on his skin feel too much, as if they can see right through him and into all the pieces of himself he keeps hidden. He’s suddenly reminded of Irene’s all too knowing gaze outside of that coffee shop in Paris, how he’d felt pulled apart and trapped under a lens. Open. 

John holds Sherlock’s gaze for a beat longer – murky blue meeting aquamarine – before he clears his throat and turns to fold Sherlock’s trousers neatly, placing them over the back of a chair. 

“Bed,” John prompts, and Sherlock nods silently, thankful for having John’s eyes elsewhere. He turns and climbs onto the mattress gingerly, his movements not as graceful and elegant as usual. 

He reaches down to the end of the bed and slowly pulls the thin sheet over himself, the cotton is cool and soft against his skin and he curls up on his side, one arm sliding up to tuck under his pillow. Sherlock watches as John turns from his position facing the window and moves to head towards the door.

“Well erm, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, just – text or shout or whatever if you start to feel worse, don’t just ignore it and hope it goes away,” John rambles softly, waving his hands hopelessly by his sides. 

Sherlock can see him stalling, hovering around the doorway as if he can’t decide whether to leave or to stay, to make sure Sherlock is fine and that he’ll continue to be fine. Sherlock takes a breath and decides to make John’s decision for him. 

“Stay.”

And John does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter I've been the most nervous about posting, for obvious reasons I suppose. It was so difficult to write Sherlock like this because well, it's so not Sherlock, hopefully he didn't come across as too OOC. It's been through like a million re-writes but yeah, I hope you all enjoyed it. 
> 
> Also thanks for all the comments! It's been lovely reading all your thoughts, I really appreciate them. :) 
> 
> Coming up! Mycroft is an interfering arse, Mrs Hudson is a BAMF, and Sherlock and John do an amazing job of NOT TALKING ABOUT IT, NOPE NOT AT ALL, EVERYTHING IS FINE HERE. *whistles* 
> 
> (On a side note, whilst I was writing this chapter I sort of wrote down John's missing 2 hours from John's POV just so I could get his thoughts straight and help myself write the 2nd half of the chapter, because well, John hasn't done much 'emoting' so far. I won't be posting it as part of this fic because I want to keep it Sherlock's POV but if anyone would like to read it I am will to post it separately as part of a series, just let me know.)


	5. Chapter Four

John is gone the next morning when Sherlock wakes, the sheets smooth and cool beside him where the night before they had been wrinkled and warm with John’s body-heat. 

It hadn’t been the best night’s sleep – not that Sherlock often had a ‘good’ night’s sleep – but the previous night had been made 10 times worse down to the fact that it had been awkward and uncomfortable. It was only once John had climbed into bed beside Sherlock that Sherlock had realised that outside of heat they had never actually _slept_ in the same bed as one another. That their shared heat was the only physical relationship they had really had with each other. 

And so Sherlock had tossed and turned repeatedly, partly due to the warmth of the room, partly due to the fact that his back had started to ache unpleasantly, but mainly due to the fact that John was holding himself too still beside him as if afraid that he might accidentally touch Sherlock if he succumbed to sleep. His arms and legs were too stiff and Sherlock could feel the tension radiating off of him from the other side of the bed. 

Eventually after the best part of an hour and a half, Sherlock felt John relax behind him and soon heard the first snores of a deep sleep. Sherlock continued to wriggle around for another 15 minutes or so – his back protesting any position he curled into – until his shifting disturbed John back into semi-wakefulness and he rolled over to curl an arm over Sherlock’s waist. 

Sleep somehow became easy after that. 

Sherlock rolls over and buries his face in the pillow John had slept on. His scent there is heady and thick, and Sherlock allows himself to indulge in it for a few minutes before carefully climbing out of bed, cautious of his still thickening belly as well as any attacks of dizziness like he had experienced the day before when standing. 

He grabs his blue silk robe hanging limply on the back of the door before leaving his room – knotting the matching tie just above the curve of his stomach – and follows the scent of freshly brewed coffee and cooked bacon down the hallway, fully expecting to see John sat at the breakfast table. 

However it isn’t John that he finds seated in the living room with a hot cup of coffee, but Lestrade, a mug cradled in one hand as he flicks through John’s paper with the other. 

“Lestrade,” Sherlock says shortly, and Lestrade jumps a little, obviously not expecting Sherlock’s sudden presence in the room.

“Sherlock!” he says and places his mug on the coffee table before standing, brushing his hands off self consciously on his trouser legs. “Didn’t think you’d be up so soon, John said you were dead to the world when he checked on you.” 

Sherlock’s brow furrows and he glances around the flat briefly. “Where is John?”

“He was just leaving as I got here,” Lestrade answers, tucking his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “Said he’d got called in to the surgery this morning, one of the doctor’s has come down with food poisoning apparently and they’re short staffed. Said he’d be back later.”

Sherlock nods distractedly and takes a seat on the sofa; obviously John isn’t quite as okay with the turn of events as he’d appeared to be yesterday. 

“So what do you want?”

Lestrade sighs and takes his seat back in John’s armchair again, leaning back and tapping his fingers on the armrests rhythmically. 

“Just wanted to see if you were alright really, gave us all a bit of a fright yesterday. Even Donovan looked a bit worried.”

Sherlock snorts and folds his arms over his chest; he turns his face towards the window and watches the small flock of birds flutter about on the roof opposite. Their clumsy hopping and stunted squarks of communication proving to be infinitely more interesting than the current conversation the Inspector is attempting to instigate. 

“As you can see I am perfectly fine, now unless you are here to ask for my continued help on the serial killer case – which I doubt highly due to the fact that John would have specifically told you that under no circumstances am I allowed to leave this flat – then may I suggest that you use that concern to help energise your feeble little brains into finding the culprit. No wonder Scotland Yard is so incapable of solving even the most meagre of crimes if you waste so much energy on visiting those you are ‘concerned’ about, instead of getting off your backsides and doing some _actual_ investigating.” 

Sherlock hears Lestrade’s exasperated sigh and the protesting creak of the armchair’s springs as he stands.

“I’ll bring round some cold cases tomorrow.”

“Tiresome,” Sherlock moans as Lestrade’s shoes clack loudly on the floorboards as he heads to the door and down the stairs.

“Well it’s the best I’ve got!”

***** 

Everything is dull, completely and utterly _dull_ , Sherlock thinks as he reclines on the sofa, arms folded up behind his head as he stares blankly at the ceiling. There is absolutely nothing of interest in the flat and with neither John nor Mrs Hudson in the building there is no-one to entertain him in the slightest either. 

He considers getting dressed and continuing with his search of the bins outside of the tower block of the latest victim, but he knows that if John comes home while he is gone then all hell will break loose. There is also the fact that his hips are aching quite viciously and that standing for too long only appears to make the pain worse; however he tells himself that it’s the prospect of facing John’s wrath that is the main issue preventing him leaving the flat. 

He is midway through debating the worth of restarting his decomposition experiment with the new batch of thumbs in the freezer, when he hears footsteps on the stairs and the unmistakable click of an umbrella tip against wood; the gentle rustle of Savile row fabric and the squeak of the finest Italian leather.

 _Mycroft_.

“Brother dear, for what do I owe the displeasure?” 

Mycroft’s footsteps pause in the doorway, his umbrella tapping the floor with a pointed clack. Sherlock lowers his gaze from the ceiling to look at his brother under hooded lids. 

“Oh Sherlock, I would think that even you could figure out what it is that I am here to discuss.”

Sherlock sneers and props himself up on his elbows as Mycroft enters the flat, walking over to take a seat in John’s chair. He crosses his legs primly and rests his umbrella up against the arm. He has put another 3 pounds on by Sherlock’s estimation, a result of his new secretary’s fondness for cream cakes with afternoon tea. His scent is non-existent as usual – as always Mycroft trying to portray the image of the non-threatening politician – although Sherlock can detect the hint of his alpha musk beneath the neutralising soap. 

“Poking your nose into business that doesn’t concern you again?”

Mycroft smirks and dusts away an invisible mark on his pristinely pressed trousers with the back of his hand. 

“On the contrary my dear brother, it did not take much ‘poking’ at all,” he says reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out a photo, he places it face up on the coffee table and raises a neatly groomed eyebrow. 

Sherlock flicks his eyes down briefly to the scan of his child before glaring up at Mycroft’s smug face; he clenches his jaw and curls a hand into a fist against the leather of the sofa. Mycroft’s lips twitch in amusement. 

“Always getting yourself into a mess aren’t you Sherlock? Although there is no need to worry, I am here to clean it all up again, as usual.”

Sherlock snarls and pushes himself up into a seated position; his back straight and both hands biting fiercely into the upholstery. The condescending look on Mycroft’s face is enough to test his usual cold attitude when it comes to his brother. A spark of rage igniting in him at the suggestion Mycroft is making, that he does not believe Sherlock is capable and that Sherlock is foolish to think otherwise. He reads it in the crease of Mycroft’s forehead, the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“And just what the _hell_ is that supposed to mean?!”

Mycroft sighs and shakes his head a little, the expression on his face similar to that of when talking to a particularly irritating child. Sherlock’s hands tighten as he does his best to restrain himself from leaping up and punching the smug git right in the mouth. 

“Oh come now, don’t be so obtuse. You know exactly what I mean,” Mycroft chastises, reaching into his suit pocket once again and pulling out a neatly folded piece of paper. “You should be thankful that there is still time to rectify this little mishap, a few more weeks and we would not have been so fortunate. Here is a list of the best doctors in London qualified to perform the procedure, all of them known for their confidentiality and discretion. Anthea informs me that it would have been easier on your person if we had dealt with this sooner, but I am led to believe that the procedure at this late a gestation is still a routine matter.” 

Sherlock swallows hard and dips his head down to stare at his knees, he can feel himself trembling with the unadulterated _rage_ burning inside of him; his heart thumping in his chest and his stomach churning unpleasantly. This is _his_ child, his and John’s child, and the thought of losing it – of knowingly _destroying_ the only part of John that he gets to keep, that is his to protect and hold – makes his chest ache. He thinks of Irene’s words about how this is his decision and his alone, that nobody – especially Mycroft, who as Sherlock only knows too well, would sell his own brother to the enemy under the guise of the greater good – has any right to tell him otherwise. He tells himself this, repeats it in his mind like a mantra, if only to block out the little voice in the back of his head whispering that Mycroft is right, he doesn’t hold the capacity to love unconditionally, the way John's child deserves to be loved. 

“Get out,” he whispers, breathing shallowly as he grasps to hold on to the remaining threads of his frayed self control, fingers curling like claws desperately into the silk of his dressing gown.

Mycroft tutts condescendingly in front of him and places the piece of paper beside the scan on the coffee table. 

“Oh don’t be absurd Sherlock; we both know it’s for the best. You are not fit to provide a stable and loving home to successfully aid the development of a child, especially now since Dr Watson seems to be intent on continuing with his plan to marry Ms Morstan. You are barely capable of looking after yourself, how are you to be trusted with the wellbeing of an infant?” 

Sherlock surges to his feet abruptly, his eyes burning dark as he stares Mycroft down. His hands are fisted tightly by his side as he breathes harshly, throat tight and suffocating. 

“I said get _OUT_ Mycroft! Get out of my _flat_!” 

Mycroft rises to his feet slowly, straightening out his suit jacket and fixing Sherlock with a pitying look. Sherlock breathes harshly, his nostrils flaring as he does his best to reign in the uncontrollable trembling in his limbs.

“Now Sherlock –”

“I think you’d better leave Mycroft Holmes.”

Mrs Hudson’s voice is cold and acerbic, a stark contrast to her usual light and airy tone; she stands just inside the doorway with her arms folded and her lips thinned, a hard look on her face. Sherlock drops back down limply to sit on the sofa and scrubs a hand over his face, running his fingers roughly through his curls as he sucks in a deep lungful of air. He hears Mycroft grasp the wooden handle of his umbrella, the gold band around his right ring finger clicking dully against them wood; he doesn’t have to look up to know Mycroft’s expression is chastised, the way he'd look when they were children after managing to upset Mummy. 

“Very well. Good day Mrs Hudson. Sherlock,” he says, walking with clipped steps towards the door, the skimming tap of his umbrella punctuating the click of his well heeled shoes. He pauses briefly to pass one final parting shot over his shoulder. “I do hope that you consider my proposal brother, it would indeed be the best option for all parties involved.”

Mrs Hudson closes the door forcefully at the sound of Mycroft’s retreating footfalls on the stairs. Sherlock watches out of the corner of his eye as she bends to pick up 2 shopping backs from the floor and bustles towards the kitchen.

“That bloody brother of yours! Who does he think he is? Coming in here and throwing his weight around where it’s not wanted! In _my_ home!” She shouts, the sound of cupboard doors opening and closing rapidly as she unpacks the shopping bags. “Someone should give him a bloody good hiding, the insufferable man!”

“Mrs Hudson – ” Sherlock murmurs tiredly, steeping his hands in front of his lips.

“ – Upsetting you! When that’s the last thing you need, you were only in hospital yesterday! – ”

“Mrs Hudson – ” he tries again, the sound of cupboard doors giving way to the gentle boiling of the kettle and the sound of china mugs against the worktop.

“ – He should know better, upsetting you like that when there’s that little baby of yours to think about –”

“ _Mrs Hudson_!”

Mrs Hudson appears in the doorway a questioning look on her face, her lavender painted fingers curled around the frame. Sherlock sighs and drops his hands down between his knees.

“What are you _doing_?”

Mrs Hudson shifts slightly until she can lean against the wood of doorway and wraps one arm around her waist, the other reaching up to play with her necklace absentmindedly. 

“Me and Mrs Turner nipped down to Sainsbury’s after our coffee and I thought I’d get some things for you and John too, it’s not much really, just a few odds and ends. John mentioned you were low on milk this morning and I got you a pack of biscuits. Don’t go thinking of making a habit of it though, it’s just this once, I’m just your landlady!” she trills, turning back into the kitchen as the kettle clicks off. A quiet tinkling of metal on ceramic fills the silence of the flat as she finishes the tea. 

“Why did you mention a baby?” Sherlock asks curiously as Mrs Hudson walks back into the front room and he takes the offered mug, curling both hands around it protectively as he watches the steam rise up slowly; his anger beginning to cool with every passing second. Mrs Hudson gently lowers herself into the seat recently vacated by Mycroft. 

“Oh love,” she sighs, looking at Sherlock with a degree of motherly warmth in her eyes. “I know you think that I’m just your dotty old housekeeper –”

“I thought you weren’t my housekeeper,” Sherlock murmurs, blowing on his tea before taking a tentative sip. Mrs Hudson raises a reprimanding eyebrow.

“But,” she continues regardless, “despite what you think I do have a working set of eyes and ears, alright maybe they don’t work as well as they used to, but they work well enough. Experience comes with age dear and you don’t get to nearly 80 without learning to recognise a thing or two.”

Sherlock smiles crookedly around the rim of his mug, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Anyone would think you were trying to put me out of a job Mrs Hudson.” 

Mrs Hudson smiles in reply, swapping her slowly cooling mug from one hand to the other as she tilts her head to the side thoughtfully. 

“Oh I don’t know dear, I think maybe I’m a little too old to be a modern day Miss Marple. I have my hip to think about remember. Best leave the detecting to you love, you’re a lot better at running after criminals than me. Not that you should be doing much running about in your condition mind you!” she adds as an afterthought, taking a sip of her tea and looking at Sherlock pointedly. Sherlock rolls his eyes and leans back into the sofa. 

“Oh don’t be dull Martha, I thought you were better than that.” 

“Don’t you cheek me young man,” she says, resting her mug on the arm of John’s chair. “There’s not just you to think about anymore. You need to start taking better care of yourself, it’s only going to get harder from here.” 

A comfortable lull descends over the flat, the faint sound of London traffic blowing in through the open windows. Sherlock drains the last of his tea and leans forward to place the mug on the coffee table, the motion, he realises, a little more difficult than it had been a couple of weeks ago. 

“How long have you known?” he asks, leaning back and folding his hands over his stomach; his thumb smoothing back and forth over the silk of his dressing gown unconsciously. 

“Since the thing with the tarts dear,” she says, smiling a little as she watches Sherlock’s hands. “Although I have to say I’m surprised your John didn’t pick up on it sooner, what with being a doctor and all. But I suppose he has been a little preoccupied with that girlfriend of his, not that that’s an excuse.” 

Sherlock hums thoughtfully and smirks mentally at Mrs Hudson’s quiet displeasure at John’s recent flightiness. “What tipped you off?”

“Apart from the vomiting?” she laughs. “Your scent is a little different dear,” backtracking when she sees Sherlock’s horrified expression. “Only a little, it’s obviously not a lot since nobody else, especially your John, picked up on it. It’s just us omegas love, better sense of smell than the others.” 

Sherlock glances down to where his hands are entwined over his belly and deliberately presses his thumbs down over the bump. He meets an unfamiliar resistance under his hands, the bump not giving way under the gentle pressure; a growing presence that will only continue to increase in size. 

“Why do you keep calling him ‘my’ John?” he murmurs softly, almost unconsciously, eyes focused on watching how his stomach rises and falls as he breathes. 

“Oh Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson sighs sadly, leaning forward until she can place her hand on Sherlock’s knee and squeeze. Sherlock snaps his gaze up and looks over at her soft, lined face. “I do it because he is! It’s just taking him a little longer to realise it.”

The downstairs front door slams suddenly, and Sherlock continues to look at Mrs Hudson who smiles back gently. He sees the unadulterated adoration she obviously holds for him in her eyes, and he finds his throat closing up slightly at the emotion it invokes in him, warm and choking. 

The moment is broken too soon by the arrival of a lightly flushed John in the doorway. 

“Hi,” he says a little breathlessly. “What’s going on here?”

Mrs Hudson draws her away and leans back in her seat before pushing herself up to stand, taking her empty mug. Sherlock watches her intently and feels surprisingly a little disappointed at John’s return, the fact that the conversation is well and truly over. 

“I just did a little shopping for you both and thought I’d stay for a cuppa, I’m sure I’ve quite talked Sherlock’s ear off!” she laughs, moving to the kitchen and rinsing out her mug. “I’ll just be off now and leave you both to it.”

Sherlock leans forward on the sofa again as Mrs Hudson turns to leave. 

“Mrs Hudson,” he says quickly, pausing for a moment as she turns back to look at him, a questioning look on her face. Sherlock swallows.

“Thank you,” he continues softly and Mrs Hudson smiles, nodding once in acknowledgment before walking out of the flat and down the stairs. 

John looks between them a little lost until Sherlock turns to look at him and raises an eyebrow. John glances away and upon seeing the collection of mugs on the coffee table sighs. 

“Is it too much trouble to just stick them in the sink?” he asks, bending down to pick them up and take them into the kitchen. Sherlock leans back on the sofa and kicks his feet up into the abandoned space left by the mugs. 

“I am suffering from heat exhaustion, or have you forgotten?”

“Doesn’t mean you can turn into a complete slob, not that you should be drinking tea right now anyway, you need to stay hydrated, not hyped up on caffeine,” John says moving back into the living room with an open bottle of lager in hand. He slumps down in his chair with a contented sigh and lifts the bottle to his lips. 

“I’m going round to Mary’s later.”

Sherlock finds his surprisingly good mood begin to sour instantly, the warm glow he’d felt from his chat with Mrs Hudson, fading back into the churning sick feeling he’d felt when Mycroft had turned up. John is going for denial then, typical. 

“She’s having some sort of dinner party for the girls at work,” John continues, not aware of the sudden drastic change of mood in his flatmate. “She did say to ask you, but I didn’t think that would be wise,” he finishes taking a large swig of beer. 

“Quite,” Sherlock replies flatly, crossing both his ankles as well as folding his arms over his chest; the material of his dressing gown pulling tight and emphasising the bump at his waist. 

John sighs and leans forward to place the half empty bottle on the coffee table.

“Best go have a shower,” he says, groaning as he stands from the chair and starts to walk down the hallway to the bathroom. “There’s some left over risotto in the fridge for dinner,” he calls, “and I will check that it’s gone tomorrow, I know you won’t have bothered to eat today.” 

The door to the bathroom closes gently and Sherlock exhales loudly, his eyes fluttering shut exhaustedly of their own accord. He rubs his palm in small, soothing circles over his belly, and listens to the rhythmic sound of water hitting the floor of the bath as John whistles to himself happily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there was no update last week, I'm in the middle of wrapping things up at uni right now and also I have exams coming up so posting might be a bit sporadic until June, by which time I will be free from higher education! Also we're about half way through what I've already written now and I haven't had much time to work on finishing it up recently so if I end up taking another 2 weeks to post after this then it's probably because I don't want to catch up to myself. 
> 
> I hope you're all still enjoying this and thank you for all the lovely comments, you're all wonderful! 
> 
> Next time: a crisis of clothing, and Sherlock and John talk a little, but only a little.


	6. Chapter Five

Midway through Sherlock’s 19th week of pregnancy the weather takes a turn for the worse, the scorching heat rapidly giving way to cold showers of rain, and Sherlock finds himself needing to return to his tailored suits, rather than the cool, linen trousers and light t-shirts John had bought for him after seeing nothing suitable in his wardrobe for a 4 month pregnant man to wear in 25 degree heat. 

It had taken until the second day after the hospital debacle for John to actually acknowledge the presence of the third person inhabiting their flat. John had woken on the 2nd day to find Sherlock sweating miserably on the sofa in his suit – jacket stubbornly in place despite the moisture building on his forehead – and had furiously lectured Sherlock on the complications that could be caused by heatstroke and the importance of dressing for the weather, without seemingly noticing that he’d broken his self imposed silence. After he had forced Sherlock to remove his jacket and discovered Sherlock’s pitiful hot weather wardrobe, he had marched straight down to M&S and bought up what Sherlock can only imagine to have been the entire men’s summerwear section.

Sherlock had raged and ranted wildly at first, but upon dressing in his suit again the next day soon relented that John had a point; although he refused point blank to be seen in public at any point over the following week whilst wearing the clothes. 

(John’s radio silence also seemed to disappear with the restricting suits, although despite his willingness to acknowledge the baby he still refused to talk about the ‘situation’ in anything other than passing, much to Sherlock’s disdain.) 

The problem is that in the 9 days since Sherlock last pulled on a suit – which he will admit had been a struggle in the final few days – the baby appears to have undertaken a growth spurt, the button on his trousers now a healthy 3 centimetres away from its fastening.

Sherlock flops back on the bed, a light sweat on his forehead after a good 20 minutes of trying to force his trousers shut to no avail. He runs a hand through his sweat damp hair and dreads to think about what state his shirts would be in if he attempted to put them on.

“John!” he shouts, pausing for half a second before trying again.

“ _JOHN_!”

“Al _right_! Alright. Jesus Christ I heard you the first time!” John shouts in reply, barging into Sherlock’s room with a scowl on his face. “What is it?”

Sherlock huffs and arches his hips from the bed again, tugging sharply at his trousers.

“They don’t _fit_ anymore!” he grunts, tugging hard enough to rip one of the inside seams before slumping back down on the mattress and panting in defeat. 

John sighs and rubs a hand over his forehead tiredly.

“What did you expect really? You’ve gained about 5 pounds in the past 2 weeks.”

Sherlock turns his head sharply to look at John, his mouth crinkling in disgust.

“I certainly have _not_!”

John raises an eyebrow and nods once in the direction of the too small trousers gathered around Sherlock’s hips; the material is strained tight over his thighs in a way that cannot possibly be comfortable. 

“Your clothes say otherwise.”

Sherlock sniffs and crosses his arms over his chest petulantly, setting his jaw and refusing to let his internal dismay reflect on his face. John sighs despairingly once more.

“Look, I think I’ve got some old jeans and a shirt you can wear, the jeans might be a little short but they’ll be better than those,” he says pointing at the trousers still clinging to Sherlock’s form, “and those trousers I got you last week alright, it’s the best I can do.”

Sherlock pouts and shuffles unhappily on the bed, attempting to kick his trousers off with the heels of his feet. “Fine.”

John nods and turns to leave, closing the door half to behind him. Sherlock sags into the bed for a moment before hauling himself to stand and wriggling unattractively to remove himself from his trousers, 2 or 3 more seams popping a little on the way. He kicks his legs violently when the trousers slip down to his ankles, sending the offending garment flying across the room. 

He sighs a little happily at the relief of being free from the restrictive trousers, and glancing around the room catches sight of himself in the mirror. He steps a little closer and turns himself sideways on to look at his profile. 

He is still very thin he is pleased to note, his arms and chest are still lean with light muscle, as are his calves. His thighs look a little fuller and his arse a little rounder – which is probably the cause for his trousers no longer fastening – but the biggest change of them all, unsurprisingly, is to his once flat, once toned stomach. 

It isn’t a very big bump, not really, he has seen some omegas at close to 20 weeks with the appearance of a basketball attached to their fronts, but it is _bigger_ , considerably. 

At the start of his 4th month the baby hadn’t been more than the most gentle of curves in between his hipbones, barely noticeable to somebody who wasn’t familiar with his body. The bump looked just like a normal storage of fat, a little squishy hint of a belly on most people who weren’t Sherlock. However now it was starting to border on ‘really quite noticeable’. There was now quite a pronounced curve to his abdomen, the swell now rounded out from his pelvis and tapering off just above his navel. He’d read somewhere that this was around the normal size for his uterus at this stage in his pregnancy, but still, the drastic change within the space of under 4 weeks was a little terrifying to say the least. 

He slides a hand down and around to cup under the bump, testing it under his fingers. It’s hard, harder than he’d expected it to feel considering a good portion of it is supposed to be a sac of fluid. He pokes and prods at it a little, his lips curling slightly when he feels a little flutter of movement from inside. 

The flutters are a new thing, a very new thing as this is only the second day that he’s felt them, but already they are becoming something fascinating and experiment worthy. One day he is certain he will devote the whole day trying to induce the little flutters just through external stimuli. 

The creak of the bedroom door opening again stirs Sherlock from his thoughts and he turns to where John is stood in the entrance to his room, jeans and a shirt in hand. 

“Clothes,” John says a little pointlessly, moving over to Sherlock’s bed and laying them down. Sherlock hums in acknowledgement and moves over to the bed, his hands falling from his stomach to pick up the jeans and hold them up for inspection. 

“Satisfactory,” he drawls and undoes the button and zip, bending slightly to pull them up his legs. 

“Y’know,” John says softly as he watches Sherlock fasten the jeans, the waistband a little snug but better than his other pair of trousers. “It’s fine. The weight that is. It’s perfectly normal.” 

Sherlock makes a displeased sound but reaches over to pick up John’s shirt from the bed. John clears his throat a little roughly. 

“In fact I’d say you were a little small even – not, not that that’s a bad thing either – just that, well. You look – fine, perfectly fine,” he rambles, dropping his gaze down to his twisting hands and pointedly not on Sherlock’s half naked body. “Good, actually. Really good.” 

Sherlock pauses, shirt held loosely in his hands. 

“John.”

John clears his throat again and hitches a thumb in the direction of the door, taking a step back. 

“I’m just gonna go make some tea and leave you to it,” he says backing sheepishly towards the door and heading out into the hallway. Sherlock pauses, shirt held loosely in his grasp until he hears the gentle sounds of tea making coming from the kitchen. He turns back towards the mirror, shrugging on John’s shirt, and slowly fastens the buttons; the only visible sign of his condition disappearing behind a veil of light blue fabric. 

He quietly leaves his room and pads barefoot down the hallway, bypassing the kitchen and heading straight to the sitting room, where he finds John flicking through a stack of paper he’d picked up from the coffee table. Sherlock sees him pause when he reaches the folded piece of thick, official looking, cream coloured paper, the ultrasound scan tucked underneath.

“What’s this?” he asks, placing the stack of remaining papers back down onto the coffee table and unfolding the letter. His eyes widen a little and Sherlock feels his pulse pick up; the knowledge that this is the tipping point – that this is the moment where they can no longer dance around the subject anymore – causing his fight or flight reflex to spike.

“Is this – is this something that you’d want?” John asks tentatively, looking at Sherlock blankly, his feelings on the matter hidden behind a doctor’s mask of professionalism; Sherlock despises it. 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock spits, stalking forward and throwing himself on the sofa, a hand curled over his waist despite the portrayed carelessness of it. 

John nods but the expected relief that Sherlock had thought his words would bring, does not appear on his face. Sherlock’s brow furrows and a horrible feeling unfurls in his chest. 

“Is that what you’d like me to do John? Do you want me to get rid of it?”

“No, no,” John sighs, bringing his hands up to cover his face and scrub harshly into his eyes sockets. “That’s not – no – I just, _shit_ it’s such a mess. It’s all such a mess,” he says dropping his hands back down by his hips and looking towards the ceiling, his eyes closing tiredly. Sherlock swallows thickly and steels his jaw.

“So you do want me to get rid of it.”

“That’s not what I said Sherlock! Don’t put words in my mouth!” John exclaims, tossing the papers back onto the pile with the others. “I just said it’s difficult alright! The best thing that could have happened was if this hadn’t!”

Sherlock growls and heaves himself up to his feet; he draws himself up to his full height and stares John down hard.

“So I suppose it’s my fault then is it? My fault that you got me in this _state_? My fault that it’s going to spoil your little _relationship_?”

“Now hang on – ”

“This child was here before your ridiculous little engagement to that _vapid_ woman, _your_ child John, and if you think for one second that I feel even one ounce of sympathy for the situation you’ve found yourself in then you are sincerely mistaken,” he snaps, turning on his heel sharply and storming back towards his bedroom. 

He slams the door violently behind him and sags back against the wood, hands still clasped around the doorknob. It takes less than 30 seconds until there is an equally as vicious reply, and the furious pounding of John’s feet down the stairs. 

***** 

Sherlock spends the rest of the afternoon locked firmly in his room, he spreads the files of 3 cold cases Lestrade had given him 2 weeks ago over his bed and works through each of them relentlessly; snarling in disdain at the obvious, pathetic little mistakes in each and every one of them. 

He ignores the patient little knock at the door from Mrs Hudson and studiously refuses to leave to eat or drink despite his growling stomach. 

Around 5:30 he hears the door to the flat open once more signalling John’s return. His footsteps sound sluggish and tired as he walks down the hallway. Sherlock is not the least bit surprised when there is a tentative knock on the door. 

“Sherlock,” John’s voice is soft and muted from behind the wood of the door. “Can we talk? Please?”

Sherlock sighs, dropping the witness statements from the 3rd case file – 20 year old murder/suicide that had been thrown into suspicion after the discovery of a forged will, it’s quite clear that the son did it but proving it with the evidence he has is becoming a little difficult – and stands up to move to the door. He turns the lock quickly and opens the door a crack. 

“Whatever for, I think we have both made ourselves perfectly clear on our opinions of the matter.”

“Please,” John pleads, tucking his fingers in the crack of the door, preventing Sherlock from shutting it in his face. “I just – Sherlock please.” 

Sherlock huffs disapprovingly but steps back allowing John through, he moves back to sit amongst the open case files and watches John intently as he paces back and forth across the room.

“I’m sorry alright,” John sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean what I said like you took it to mean, I just – this is difficult for me, it’s really, really difficult.”

Sherlock shakes his head disbelievingly and crosses his arms around his waist. 

“And you think that _I_ find any of this easy? That I find having to share my body with your offspring, getting fat and sluggish while you flounce around with _Marjorie_ to be a ‘piece of cake’?” he spits, taking a sick pleasure in the way John tenses, his jaw twitching uncontrollably. “If you think that I am enjoying anything about this whole situation then you are sorely mistaken!”

“I am trying to have a reasonable conversation with you!” John snaps. “I know this isn’t easy for you alright, believe me I know. But do you understand the position I’m in here? Do you understand the choice that I am going to have to make? Because I’m not sure you really do!”

Sherlock laughs humourlessly and eyes John with discontent. He flexes the fingers wrapped around his waist if only to stop them curling into an angered fist. 

“Oh _poor John Watson_! If this is you asking for sympathy from me then I’m sorry but I shall have to disappoint you!”

“I am not asking for your sympathy!” John shouts, his arms flailing wildly as his restraint finally breaks, Sherlock notes the red blotches appearing at the base of John’s throat. “All I am asking is for you is to consider how I might be feeling about all of this! I don’t want to _lose you_ Sherlock! I don’t want to lose you, or Mary, or the baby! And the thing is I am more than likely going to lose one of you and that hurts Sherlock! It’s hurts knowing that _I_ am going to hurt one of you so much that I drive you away, can’t you _see_ that?!” 

The room falls silent for a moment, the quiet only punctuated by the sound of John’s heavy breathing. Sherlock looks down at his knees and breathes in and out as calmly as he can, his pulse rate dropping to something a little healthier than previously. 

“I lost you once Sherlock,” John says quietly, once the bubbling, hot anger in the room has cooled, his voice breaking a little. Sherlock hears feet shuffle on the carpet as John shifts his weight. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

Sherlock swallows thickly and looks down to where his fingers are pulling unconsciously at a loose thread on the inside seam of John’s old jeans. He thinks about what it felt like to have lost John for all those months while tracking down Moriarty’s web, the pain and desperation he’d felt at just wanting for John to be at his side, how much he’d missed the man and he’d at least known that John was _alive_. John hadn’t had the fortune to even know that. He remembers the horrific pain at seeing John so devastated at his grave, John’s tears for the agony he’d felt at thinking he’d never see him again. The truth is for all that John fears that he’ll lose Sherlock again, Sherlock can’t afford to lose John again either

“You won’t lose me,” Sherlock murmurs, tugging at the thread one final time until it pulls free. He closes his eyes for a brief moment before tilting his head back up and meeting John’s face. “No matter what happens John, you won’t lose me, I promise you that.”

John blinks a little quickly and turns his gaze to anyone but Sherlock. 

“Good – good because I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you again Sherlock, I’m not sure I could go through that again,” he cuts himself off swallows repeatedly, his jaw line hard, clearly refusing to let himself succumb to the obvious emotion building up inside him.

Sherlock bites his lip and exhales slowly through his nose. He stands quietly and takes a nervous step towards John, uncertain of how to really proceed or how his actions might be taken. He gently slides his arms around John’s shoulders and John tenses for a moment before relaxing completely, his arms curling firmly around Sherlock’s waist. 

Sherlock sighs and John presses his face into his neck. He feels John’s hand rub soothingly over the small of his back and Sherlock curls his fingers against the nape of John’s neck, turning his face to press against John’s greying hair and inhaling deeply. His scent smells wonderful and Sherlock goes a little limp against him. 

They stand, wrapped around each other carefully, for a while longer. John gently caressing his hands over the small of Sherlock’s back and hips, soft and protective, as if holding something that might shatter at any moment, something precious. Sherlock makes drowsy, content murmuring sounds as John lightly smoothes over the aching pains ever present in the curve of his spine, and turns his face harder into John’s hair. He feels John’s lips press delicately against the hollow of his throat and keens a little.

There is a soft knock on the door and suddenly the spell is broken, Sherlock and John jerking away from each other a little roughly. Sherlock blinks dreamily, attempting to clear the pheromone haze that had settled over the both of them, before turning to look at Mrs Hudson who is stood sheepishly in the doorway. 

“I’m really sorry to disturb you dears,” she says apologetically, an awkward look on her face. “It’s just I had a little left over from dinner with my granddaughter earlier, it’s just a casserole and some vegetables but since you hadn’t eaten I thought I’d bring you some up.”

John rubs embarrassedly at the back of his neck, a light blush staining his cheeks. 

“Er thank you – Mrs Hudson. We appreciate it.”

Mrs Hudson nods and begins to retreat back around the door, smiling shyly and pulling the door closed to. John sighs and turns to look at Sherlock with a chagrined look on his face.

“Dinner then?” he asks, trying to alleviate the awkwardness that had settled over them.

Sherlock nods and John forces a cheery smile, opening the door out into the hallway and stepping through.

***** 

Dinner allows the awkwardness of their previous conversation and actions to dissipate somewhat. 

Sherlock had stood in the entrance to the kitchen watching as John had moved about reheating the casserole and roasted vegetables. They had talked small talk, John asking about the cold cases and how far Sherlock had gotten, Sherlock ranting about the capabilities (or lack of) of Scotland Yard’s workforce. It had been nice, Sherlock had forgotten how nice it was to just have _John_ for himself, no Mary, no baby, no wedding, nothing else. Just _John_.

“I can feel it moving,” Sherlock says tentatively during a comfortable lull in conversation, John’s story about his patient with the abnormally swollen foot reaching its natural conclusion. He looks at John from under his lashes as John pauses, his fork halfway to his mouth, eyebrows raising a fraction.

“Really?” John asks, finishing his fork full of runner beans and roasted potatoes, chewing thoughtfully. Sherlock nods and pushes a shredded piece of beef around his plate.

“Yes. It’s not a real kick or anything; it’s more of a flutter in all honesty. Can’t be felt from the outside yet but I have noticed that the baby responds to stimuli, loud noises, pressure to my stomach. It’s rather fascinating.”

John grins and rests his fork against the side of his plate, leaning forward to pick up his glass of water and taking a sip.

“That’s good, really good,” he says with a smile, placing his glass gently back down on the table and picking up his fork once again. “How long have you been feeling it for?”

“Around 2 days,” Sherlock answers, spearing the piece of beef and bringing it up to his mouth. He chews slowly and drops his knife and fork down on his plate, two thirds of the meal gone. “Admittedly it took me a little while to realise what it was.”

John smirks and pierces a carrot medallion with his fork. 

“Sherlock Holmes puzzled by baby, who would have thought?”

Sherlock pouts a little and folds his arms on the table defensively, watching John fondly as he continues with his meal. 

“In my defence it is not something I have had previous experience with.”

John smiles and places his own cutlery down on his plate, pushing it away slightly as he leans back in his chair. 

“I know, I’m just pulling your leg,” he laughs, resting his wrists against the edge of the table and drumming his fingers against the side of his glass slowly. He looks over at Sherlock and his expression becomes a little more serious, nervous. 

“Is it alright if I come with you on Saturday? I’d like to if that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay,” Sherlock answers, a frown pulling at his brow. “Why on Earth wouldn’t it be okay?”

John shrugs and taps his fingers a little softer against the side of the glass, Sherlock watches his face intently. 

“I don’t know. I just – I thought I’d ask, just in case. Considering, well,” he trails off, hand waving in the direction of Sherlock’s room; a passing recognition of the evening events.

Sherlock bites his lip and leans further forward over the table, catching John’s eye and staring at him earnestly, trying his hardest to convey the seriousness of his words, to make John _understand_. 

“Listen to me John because this is important. I promise to you John Watson, that under no circumstance will I stop you from being a father to our child. No matter what the outcome of this whole affair is.”

John smiles gently, thankfully, and slides his hand down from his glass to the table. It inches over the wood towards Sherlock’s but doesn’t touch; Sherlock desperately wishes John would reach just that little bit further, come just a little closer.

“Mycroft’s wrong y’know,” John says softly, his fingertips curling a little against the table. “You’ll be a great dad, absolutely fantastic.”

Sherlock’s brow furrows in confusion for a moment – _how on Earth could John know? Had Mycroft expressed his concerns to John? _– before realisation dawns quite suddenly.__

__“Mrs Hudson.”_ _

__John laughs lightly._ _

__“Yeah,” he says pushing himself away from the table and standing, collecting their empty plates and glasses and picking them up to carry them to the kitchen. “That woman is a lot more observant than you give her credit for!”_ _

__Sherlock nods slowly to himself in agreement, already lost in thought. He must remember to buy Mrs Hudson a present when this is all over._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So today I planned out the rest of the fic in detail, chapter by chapter and well, I think I kind of underestimated the amount of chapters this would take. There will probably be around 30 in total instead of the 14 I had listed to begin with, looking back I'm honestly not sure how I could have thought I'd get this all wrapped up in about 15 chapters, I guess I was a little naive oops. Hopefully the fic will end up going as planned. *finger crossed*
> 
> So the can of worms has finally been opened! It's probably not best to expect sunshine and roses for a while yet.
> 
> I may post the next chapter later or tomorrow as I'm not sure when the next time I'll get to post will be, it all depends on how quickly I can get the edits finished.


	7. Chapter Six

Saturday arrives just 3 days later, the weather cold and miserable for early August. Sherlock is wrapped up tight in his scarf and barely fastening coat, huddling against the wind beside the taxi as he waits for John to finish his phone call and come downstairs. It’s Mary of course, it’s never anyone else but Mary when it involves such perfect and inconvenient timing.

He hears John’s footsteps on the stairs and decides he’s waited politely enough, opening the door to the taxi and climbing inside. He settles himself on the back seat as John climbs in after, closing the taxi door shut behind him. 

“The Royal London please,” John says, arranging himself in his seat and looking over at Sherlock, a small, glowing smile on his face. Sherlock smiles back weakly. 

John has been nothing but excited all morning, checking his watch every 10 minutes until it had been time for them to leave. He’s happy, _extremely_ happy, at just the thought alone of seeing his child. Sherlock however, in stark contrast, has never felt so uncharacteristically nervous. He isn’t certain why, surely he himself should be wrapping himself up snug in John’s excitement too, but he’s finding that that isn’t the case. His stomach is twisting nauseously and he’d found himself twice curled up around the toilet after breakfast, not something that had happened since his morning sickness had tapered off. He doesn’t understand why he is so _nervous_ , if something is wrong with the baby – which in all honesty his rational mind finds highly unlikely – then there is nothing that he can do about it, it is entirely beyond his control. 

That still doesn’t stop him from wanting to leap out of the taxi as they pull up at the traffic lights, and make a run for it. 

They arrive at the hospital with a little time to spare, the traffic being a little less hectic than anticipated. John pays the cabbie as Sherlock climbs out of the taxi and walks slowly towards the entrance of the unit. He hears John jog up to walk beside him.

“You alright?” John asks quietly, concern lacing his voice as they step through the automatic doors.

“Why ever wouldn’t I be?” Sherlock shrugs, slipping his hands into his coat pockets and making a beeline for the reception desk. John steps up his pace with Sherlock’s long strides. 

“I don’t know, you just don’t seem – well like _you_ this morning.”

Sherlock sighs and presses the buzzer on the desk signalling their arrival, pointedly refusing to look at John. 

“Well I can assure you I am perfectly fine, never better.”

A pretty young beta nurse – her scent a citrusy mixture of freesias and grapefruit – shows up not a moment later and takes his details with an appreciative smile for him that doesn’t go unnoticed; especially by John who Sherlock is pleased to note, tenses a little at his side. She directs them (Sherlock really) to the waiting room down the hallway and informs them (Sherlock again) that they’ll be called up when the technician is ready, she leaves with a parting bat of her eyelashes – fluttered in Sherlock’s direction – and makes her way back to the desk.

“She fancied you,” John says with false lightness as they take their seats in the waiting room; the chairs plastic and uncomfortable and really not suitable for the heavily pregnant patients that must have to endure them every day. 

“Really?” Sherlock drawls, leaning back in the horrific seat and steeping his hands on his bump. “I can’t say I noticed.”

John scoffs disbelievingly and shakes his head. 

“Yeah? So what was with the ‘that would be lovely’ and ‘oh thank you so very much for your help I really do appreciate it’ and the _smiling_. You were playing up to her.”

Sherlock does his best to repress the smirk he can feel wanting to curl at his mouth and clears his throat innocently. 

“I was being polite; I thought you would have been pleased.”

“We both know you don’t do polite Sherlock,” John answers a little sharply, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his chin down towards his sternum. Sherlock turns to look at him out of the corner of his eye, mirth buzzing inside of him as he lines up his next comment.

“If I didn’t know you better I’d say you were jealous.”

John scoffs and twists minutely in his seat, shaking his head.

“You can see who you like Sherlock, it’s no business of mine.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, to tell John that no, it most definitely isn’t considering John's own relationship, when the technician appears from the corridor and calls his name. The brief respite he’d had from the twisting nausea fading away and morphing back into the horrible, churning sickness. 

They follow the technician down to the ultrasound room and she instructs Sherlock to strip out of his outerwear and sit on the bed with his shirt pulled up. The technician goes through the routine of setting up the ultrasound as Sherlock makes himself as comfortable as possible on the bed; John pulls a spare chair up to the bed and sits down, leaning forward and resting his clasped hands on the mattress. 

The technician asks a few routine questions and spreads the cold gel over Sherlock’s stomach, moving the transducer around slowly.

“This could take a while,” she says absently, watching the screen intently. “It all depends how co-operative the baby is going to be. We’ll be doing a full check up so there’re a lot of scans we need to take.”

The ultrasound screen flickers between shades of white and grey for a few minutes, unintelligible blobs, until the shape of a baby appears, clearly formed and sucking a thumb. 

“There they are,” the technician say softly and starts to move the transducer around slowly, checking over every part of the baby’s body. Sherlock finds himself holding his breath as the technician goes about her job. She is silent, her brow furrowed in concentration and Sherlock does his best to read her thoughts in the lines on her face. 

“I can’t believe how big she is,” John whispers and Sherlock nods absentmindedly in agreement, his eyes still flickering between the technician and the screen. “Just look at her little fingers and toes, so tiny.

“Baby’s are about the size of a banana at 20 weeks,” the technician smiles moving the transducer to another area. “I take it you’ve already been told the sex?”

“No,” Sherlock answers quickly. “We haven’t.”

“Would you like to know?” she asks, looking away from the monitor briefly and over to them both. “Providing we can get a clear shot of course.”

Sherlock turns to look at John and studies his face. He can see the excitement in John’s eyes, the burning desire to _know_ , but his lips say a different thing entirely. 

“Up to you Sherlock, I don’t mind either way.”

Sherlock finds himself struggling to say yes. It’s idiotic really, it shouldn’t make any difference to know the child’s sex or not, but the rational side of his brain for once is losing its battle against the irrational. Knowing the sex would bring a certain degree of realism to the situation; he would know for certain whether he would be a father to a son or daughter. The child would no longer be this abstract idea with a dream-like quality to it, not something to fantasise and wonder about, but frighteningly real. At least with no gender, no face, no name, he can pretend that he still has time to get his head around it all before it all becomes reality, before he has to face the responsibility. 

“No,” he says weakly, clearing his throat before trying again. “No, I don’t think I would.”

The technician smiles reassuringly and continues with the moving the wand over Sherlock’s stomach.

“That’s fine,” she says. “Sometimes I think it’s better not to know, adds a little mystery to it all.”

John laughs and Sherlock hears him shuffle a little in his chair, his hands sliding further onto the bed. 

“Don’t think it’ll be a mystery for too long with him, he’ll have the scans laid out of the coffee table later trying to figure it out himself,” John smiles, oblivious to Sherlock’s ongoing internal struggle. 

Sherlock remains silent for the rest of the scan, watching the screen intently as the baby kicks and turns, feeling the movement inside of him simultaneously. The ultrasound lasts another 20 minutes before the technician announces she has got all the images she needs, and allows Sherlock to wipe his stomach clean and stand from the bed. He refastens John’s jeans and pulls down the old t-shirt he’d dressed in, picking up his coat from the chair he’d draped it over when he’d entered. 

“Have you been told your due date?” the technician asks as she collects the scan print outs and stands up, moving over to Sherlock and John and handing them over. 

“No,” John says with a smile, taking the scans and looking over them with a fond look on his face, his thumb smoothing over the still of the baby’s head. 

“17th December,” she smiles, folding her arms casually at her waist. “Just in time for Christmas! It’s lovely having a baby around the house at Christmas, makes it just that little bit more special.”

Sherlock glances over at John and watches how his carefree smile dulls somewhat, the implications of the date settling over him. Sherlock paints his own forced smile on his face and follows as the technician shows them out; John silent at his side. 

***** 

Sherlock sits watching the bustling Saturday shoppers out of the window of a half packed Costa Coffee on Argyll Street; he taps his fingers absentmindedly on the table as he waits for John to bring their drinks over, black coffee for him, tea for John.

“You know you really shouldn’t be drinking this,” John sighs as he places the tray down on the table, shuffling around carefully to slide into his own seat. Sherlock shrugs and reaches over for his coffee, grabbing 4 packets of sugar and tipping them all into his mug; his taste buds have been turning more towards the sweet after their strong aversion in the earlier months of his pregnancy, he’s been lucky in the fact that he hasn’t had too many cravings, but those he has tend to be for anything sugary. 

“Surely you won’t begrudge me one coffee John, I already have to do without the patches.”

John grumbles under his breath but reaches for his own tea, adding his own mix of milk and a single sugar and stirring gently. They lapse into a difficult silence as they both sip at their drinks, the loud sounds of the rest of the shop’s patrons echoing around them stiffly.

“I need to go to Selfridges before we go back to Baker Street, I can’t be doing with living in your clothes for much longer,” Sherlock says after consuming half of his coffee and turning his attention away from the window and back to John, growing bored with analysing the grim faced London shoppers. John raises an eyebrow and lowers his cup back to its saucer. 

“Please tell me it’s for sensible clothes and not more suits? Sherlock you can’t go wasting money on clothes you’ll have grown out of again within 3 weeks.”

Sherlock huffs and rolls his eyes. 

“Anything else you wish to forbid me from doing? No coffee, no patches, no clothes. How long before you ask me to stop taking cases John?” he sneers, taking no pleasure in the way John’s jaw clenches, knowing that was exactly what John was planning to bring up in the not so distant future. 

“I’m just saying that maybe it’s best that you try and save for the baby, babies aren’t cheap Sherlock, they need food, clothes, toys, places to sleep, all of which they grow out of very quickly,” John answers reasonably, his voice placating even though Sherlock knows he’s touched a nerve. Sherlock is not sure he’ll ever understand John’s aversion to discussing his family’s wealth, or his dislike for taking what Sherlock can more than afford to give.

“We both know that money isn’t an issue here John, I don’t know why you like to pretend otherwise.”

John sighs but doesn’t bite, taking a swig of his tea and turning to look out of the window himself, the awkward silence settling in around them once more. 

“We need to start thinking about buying things for the baby actually,” John says after a while, swirling the last of his tea around in the bottom of his cup thoughtfully. Sherlock pushes his empty packets of sugar around the table, making a mess and spreading the leftover grains over the surface.

“There’s plenty of time,” he murmurs, dragging his fingertip through the sugar and off the edge of the table, making more of a mess on the already scuffed and un-mopped floor. 

John places his cup down on the empty tray and leans forward in his seat, folding his arms over each other on the tabletop. 

“But there isn’t, not really, in fact we’re running out of time quite quickly.”

“And yet you’ve still failed to inform your wife,” Sherlock croons resentfully, looking up at John from under his lashes; he watches with a smirk as John fidgets uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair. 

“What exactly do you want me to say to her Sherlock?” John snaps suddenly, Sherlock apparently pushing him one step too far. “Do you just want me to blurt it out? ‘Sorry love, can’t believe I forgot to mention that I’d been fucking my flatmate through his heat on and off for the past year and a half and now he’s pregnant with my child, surprise!’ Because I’m sure that will go down a storm!”

“So what are you going to do then John?” Sherlock hisses, pushing himself forward in his chair to lean over the table into John’s space. “Just ignore it and hope it goes away? Because I will tell you one thing John Watson this is one situation that will not go away!” 

“You think I don’t know that?” John growls in retaliation, his voice quiet despite the anger Sherlock can see bubbling up in his eyes. “You think I don’t know that I’m having a child with someone who is _not_ my fiancée 11 days before I make her my wife?! Hell Sherlock what happens if you’re late? What happens if you’re overdue, which is a distinct possibility as it’s your first child, and you go into labour on my wedding day? What do I do then? Do I leave you on your own and miss out on the birth of my child, or do I leave Mary at the altar, Sherlock? What would you like me to do?!”

Sherlock pushes himself away from the table to stand and leans down back into John’s personal space, whispering dangerously. 

“I would like you to tell your girlfriend John, that’s what I’d like you to do. Maybe if you did, she’d make the decision a hell of a lot easier for you.”

He straightens up and marches from the coffee shop without glancing back to look at John’s pale face, uncaring of the attention they had drawn to themselves with their display. He grits his teeth and pushes through the horrendous gaggles of shoppers dawdling outside of doorways, and pointedly ignores the black, official looking car following not 5 metres behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we have the second post for the weekend. This is a little shorter than what I am aiming for with the chapters so I thought it best to post it now and not keep you waiting, so I don't fob you off with a shorter update.
> 
> I would like to say that while I am British, I am not a Londoner, so any knowledge of London locations are being drawn from my memories of various visits and Google. 
> 
> Also personally I see Sherlock as the type to go directly to the designer for his clothes, but in this instance he'd probably see his clothing situation as an emergency and lower himself to visiting Selfridges to buy off the rack sizes. I'd say he is making concessions John, just not very obvious ones...


	8. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/07/13 - Sorry this is not the update you were expecting but I thought it better to give you a heads up. Basically the next chapter is 2/3 written, more than that in fact, in fact it pretty much only needs 4 more paragraphs, however my laptop very unexpectedly decided to break a couple of weeks ago and stupid me never made a copy. Luckily it doesn't appear to be serious so should hopefully be fixed soon, but as I have literally moved out of my flat and back home today I now have my computer back so I maybe able to get some files off my laptop hard drive before its repaired and stick them on my computer. 
> 
> If that's not the case then I will ask you to be patient with me as I'm trying to get the repair speeded up due to the fact that I'm currently job searching and the only version of my newly updated CV is on my laptop. I have my fingers crossed that I'll have it back by the end of next week. 
> 
> Sorry for the wait guys, but I hope we'll be back on track with this soon. I've missed this fic as much as you all have. :)

Sherlock barely sees John for the rest of the week, John preferring to stay over at Mary’s instead of returning to Baker Street of an evening. Any conversation they do have is stilted and uncomfortable and Sherlock hates _everything_. He finds himself wishing quietly in the small hours of the morning, when the flat is silent and cold, that there was no Mary and no baby, that he would give up anything just to have John back where he is supposed to be, in 221b with _him_ ; but then unexpected and uncharacteristic guilt would wash over him as he feels the baby move from inside, little wriggles of movement that are still not strong enough to be felt under his hand.

He takes a case from his website just for something to do. It’s a not particularly thrilling one. A disappearance of a 17 year old omega girl that has got the police stumped, mainly due to the fact that there was nothing from her room taken and no sign of her on any CCTV camera throughout the city.

It takes 2 days and a couple of hundred pounds in cash for his homeless network, but eventually he gets a promising tip to the girl’s whereabouts after discovering that she had clearly left of her own accord; and judging by her internet history, had obviously had the brains to research blind spots to prevent herself getting caught on camera before she had the chance to disguise herself and disappear.

He finds her under the Vauxhall Arches, cold, scared and quite clearly 4 months pregnant, which at least solves the mystery as to why an intelligent, young girl with such high prospects would disappear out of the blue without leaving a hint as to why. 

She attempts to escape when she catches sight of Sherlock but ends up running into a dead end, which leaves him with no choice but to show her his matching condition and hope it prevents her from trying anything too drastic. 

She breaks down eventually; into great fully body sobs and throws herself at Sherlock, clinging to him tight. Sherlock awkwardly tries to comfort her with an arm around her shoulders while blindly texting Lestrade from inside his coat pocket. He holds her to himself awkwardly until the police show up 20 minutes later.

“Didn’t think you had it in you Freak. Caring that is, didn’t seem like your kinda thing,” Donovan snarks, walking over towards where Sherlock is stood, watching from a distance as the paramedics check over the girl and wrap her up tight in multiple blankets. 

Sherlock shakes his head and laughs bitterly, he’s cold, hungry, tired and in no mood for Sally’s ridiculous mind games. The complete despair the girl had held over her situation had hit a little closer to home than he would have liked.

“Never give up do you Sally,” he sneers, turning on his heel and walking away from the scene. He ignores the stunned expression making its way on Sally’s face and the call of his name from Lestrade, obviously wanting to collect some form of statement from him. 

Instead he walks, lost in his own head, until he finds an empty cab on a busier street and heads back to 221b.

***** 

“Where have you been?”

Sherlock sighs and leans back against the front door of the flat, closing his eyes and wishing for once John was actually away at Mary’s.

“Couldn’t I ask the same of you?” he asks tiredly, pushing himself away from the wood and stripping off his coat. He throws it carelessly over the back of the sofa and walks past John sat in his armchair to the kitchen, switching on the kettle and leaning hard on the counter with his palms. He ducks his head down between his shoulders and shifts his weight from side to side trying to alleviate the pain that had been steadily building in his lower back for the best part of half an hour. 

He hears John stand up from his armchair and follow him into the kitchen, his footsteps pausing just inside of the doorway. 

“Are you okay?”

Sherlock hums and straightens up a little, exhaling slowly as the kettle continues to boil. 

“Fine. It’s just backache.”

He hears John’s footsteps draw closer behind him and jumps a little at the unexpected feel of John’s warm palm pressing against his lower back and moving in a slow circle. Sherlock sighs and arches back into John’s touch despite himself. 

“Come on, leave the coffee, it’s only going to tense you up more,” John soothes, his palm applying a little more pressure. “You need sleep, and a good back massage. Not necessarily in that order.”

Sherlock snorts but pushes away from the counter and allows John to guide him towards his bedroom. 

“Do you think that’s wise John?” he sneers. “Considering the circumstances.”

John sighs but doesn’t deign Sherlock with a reply, just continues to gently persuade Sherlock to sit down on the edge of his bed.

“Strip your shirt off and lean forward with your elbows on your knees,” John says, climbing on to the bed himself and sitting behind Sherlock, his legs curled up awkwardly. 

Sherlock quickly rids himself of his shirt and throws it carelessly onto the floor, he leans forward and braces his forearms on his thighs and waits a little impatiently for John to just simply get on with it. 

John’s touch is light at first, smooth and gentle. His thumbs trace down the dip in Sherlock’s spine before his palms curve around the back of his hips and apply a little pressure. Sherlock finds himself pressing back against John’s hands automatically, sighing quietly under his breath as John proceeds to press a little harder, rub a little firmer.

“That feel better?” John murmurs, pushing the heels of his palms against the dimples just peeking above the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers. Sherlock groans and drops his head down, his shoulders relaxing entirely at the relief rushing through him. 

“Yes,” he breathes, keening a bit as John’s thumb presses over a particularly sore spot. “Oh _God_ – yes!”

John hums and cups his fingers over the newly formed swells of flesh at Sherlock’s hips, he squeezes gently.

“You look a lot healthier,” he says quietly, his fingers continuing to work their magic over the tension knots around the base of Sherlock’s spine, gentle manipulation and soft strokes. 

Sherlock laughs thickly and raises his head a little, turning his face to the side and watching John from the corner of his eye.

“Is that just a polite way of telling me I’ve gotten fat?”

John huffs and pauses in his ministrations. 

“Like you could ever be classed as ‘fat’ Sherlock, you’d make a stick look fat,” he answers, caressing his thumbs over Sherlock’s waist slowly. “No I meant what I said, you look healthy. It’s good – it’s a good look on you.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow quizzically. “What do you mean exactly?”

John shrugs and looks up from the small of Sherlock’s back to the side of his face, a lopsided smile to his face. 

“I don’t know, you just look – what I’m trying to say is, it suits you, pregnancy suits you. And I know, smartarse, before you say something like ‘it’s not the same as trying on a shirt’,” he says as Sherlock rolls his eyes and sighs. “What I mean is I see some people come into the surgery and they look – tired I suppose. They look as if they’re having a bad time of it. But you don’t. Your skin doesn’t look so pale, your hair looks in better condition; it’s all the eating regular meals and sleeping probably, but it’s done you good.”

Sherlock huffs and rolls his eyes again, less sarcastic and more amusedly this time despite himself, but finds himself slumping down again when John’s hands kneed into a particularly tense spot. 

They remain in content silence for the rest of John’s massage; the only real noise the sound of Sherlock’s embarrassed whimpers and groans when John does something particularly pleasant to his spine. Eventually Sherlock feels himself begin to get a little drowsy, John’s hands relaxing him to the point of tiredness.

John gives one last stroke of his thumbs before he pulls away and shifts on the bed; Sherlock raises his head and blinks sleepily. 

“Sleep for you,” John says, standing from the bed and gently touching Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock grunts but stands slowly, unfastening his trousers and kicking them off sloppily, too tired to really care where they end up. He feels John place a guiding hand in the middle of his back and doesn’t protest when John helps him climb into bed, his brain too sluggish with sleep and oxytocin to argue otherwise. 

His bed is cool and comforting and he soon finds himself struggling to stay awake as John talks to him in a hushed voice. He nods weakly, and the last thing he sees before drifting off into unconsciousness is John’s face as he straightens the duvet over Sherlock’s shoulders. 

***** 

Sherlock is up before John the next day. He sits at the breakfast table, cup of coffee to hand and laptop open in front of him. He scans briefly through the messages on his site seeing nothing of real interest – lost dog, theft of a woman’s purse (clearly taken by the eldest son to fund his drug habit) – before he opens up a new tab and hovers his hands over the keyboard indecisively. 

He eventually finds himself browsing through the thousands of websites devoted to pregnancy and omega development. The majority of them are droll and simpering, full of flowery descriptions such as ‘blossoming bellies’ and containing little factual information of any substance at all. However he does find a couple that deal specifically with the facts and the facts alone, and he immerses himself in reading everything he can find on foetal development and the expected weekly milestones. When he has absorbed all that he can from the websites, he finds himself on Youtube watching childbirth videos. He feels entirely indifferent to the dramatic, bloody, horrific scene playing out on the screen, until he realises that the screaming, writhing omega on the bed will soon be him and he blanches a little.

The small sound of a plate being placed next to him on the table startles his wide eyes away from the video, and he looks up to see John stood beside him holding his own breakfast and cup of tea.

“Hmm, just what I wanted to be watching when I eat my breakfast this morning,” he says lightly before stepping round and taking his own seat at the table. Sherlock pauses the video and leans around his laptop to look at John. 

“I would have thought you’d be less squeamish John, it’s only a little blood after all.”

John chuckles and takes a bite of his toast, reaching for the tomato sauce and squeezing a little on his plate.

“Yes, but I’d really not like to be looking at human placenta when I’m eating chicken placenta thank you very much,” he says, picking up his knife and fork and cutting into his fried egg. Sherlock wrinkles his nose down at his own breakfast of scrambled egg on toast and gently inches the plate away a little with his index finger.

“Don’t think that’s an excuse not to eat that Sherlock,” John says warningly without looking up from the paper he had spread out over the table, chewing around a mouthful as he cuts off a piece of sausage. “I know what you’re like.” 

Sherlock huffs but drags the plate back over, picking up his knife and fork and hitting play on the video once more, the screaming omega starting her wailing once again. “It’s not actually placenta,” Sherlock mutters, cutting his toast into small squares. “I thought you of all people should know that.”

“I deal with human anatomy, I am not a vet,” John sighs, taking a sip of his tea and wincing a little at a particularly loud cry on the video. 

Sherlock chews thoughtfully as he studies John’s face, focusing particularly on the way his mouth crunches up displeasingly with every pained scream emitting from the laptop’s speakers.

“It bothers you, why does it bother you?” he asks, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. John looks up from his newspaper and shrugs. 

“I’m just not particularly fond of listening to people screaming in pain?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes and purses his lips. “It’s not that, no. You’re used to hearing screams of pain, I’ve seen you treat patients who are bawling their eyes out and not flinch once, no this is something specific.” 

John sighs defeated, realising that Sherlock is not about to let it go, and places his cutlery down on his plate, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. 

“Alright, alright,” he says lacing his fingers together and shifting in his seat. “It’s not nice for alphas to hear omegas in pain. It’s horrible actually, plays on our instinct to protect. But childbirth – how can you protect against childbirth? You can’t. It’s so primal and excruciating and there is nothing an alpha can do to help. It just, well, makes us feel useless. It terrifies us really.” 

Sherlock tilts his head to the side and considers John’s words, the inbuilt Alpha desire to _protect_ , a prospect he hadn’t really found himself considering before.

“Surely you must have seen an omega birth on rotation though?” he asks curiously. “I would have thought that would have been part of your medical training.”

“Alphas aren’t allowed inside a delivery room. Well any alpha other than the omega’s mate. It’s different for beta births though, the rules are a little more lax due to the fact that alphas are less likely to become aggressive in that situation. It’s all the hormones and pheromones that get produced; you know what it’s like during heat, imagine that but with a highly stressed alpha and then adding another into the mix. Would be a blood bath,” he says, picking up his knife and fork and continuing with his cooling breakfast.

“Doesn’t that bother you?” Sherlock asks tentatively, playing with the handle on his mug absentmindedly, his fingers tracing the curves. “That there are things you aren’t allowed to do because of your gender?”

John pauses again and looks over at Sherlock.

“No, not really. I don’t think any alpha would really want to go into obstetrics anyway, they’d have to be a bit of a masochist. I mean I’d be lying if I didn’t say it interested me from a medical point of view, it’s pretty much the only thing I didn’t get to experience on rotation,” he answers quietly, catching Sherlock’s eye before looking down at his half empty plate and picking up a slice of toast. “But I can see why it’s a rule, now.”

Sherlock’s brow furrows once more and he picks up his cold mug of tea. 

“Why’s that?”

John laughs a little and takes a bite of his toast. “Because if any alpha tried to get near you and have a look during all that,” he says gesturing to Sherlock’s laptop. “I’m not sure I’d be able to stop myself from punching them one in the face.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen comically and he pauses in shock with his mug held against his lips, John laughs once more. 

On screen the horrifying wails give way to a newborn’s soft cries. 

***** 

A little while later, after the detritus of breakfast has been cleared away (by John, naturally), Sherlock stands in the centre of the living room, his shirt undone and both hands cupping over his belly. He remains still, staring down at his stomach as the baby flutters around excitedly inside; the movements are a consistent flicking and have been going on for the past 10 minutes, but instead of being overly irritating as he would have expected, he’s not sure he wants it to stop. 

“What are you doing?” John asks amusedly as he re-enters the room from the kitchen, Sherlock hushes him scoldingly and slides a hand further up over his stomach. 

“The baby is kicking,” he says quietly, looking up at John from under his lashes as John moves over to sit in front of him on the sofa.

“And that means you have to start stripping off in the middle of our sitting room?” John smirks, raising an eyebrow and nodding at Sherlock pointedly.

Sherlock scowls and looks up at John fully, his hands stilling over his abdomen. He opens his mouth to answer, his lip curling sarcastically at the corner, when the pounding sound of feet on the stairs echoes out in the flat. Sherlock has no time to cover himself before the door to the flat bursts open and Lestrade appears in the doorway, his expression cheery until his eyes land on Sherlock’s half naked body and his eyes bulge out of his skull.

“What the bloody _hell_!” he splutters as Sherlock scrambles to pull his shirt closed despite knowing it’s already too late. 

“Lestrade,” Sherlock answers flatly, steeling his jaw and pulling himself up to his full height. He pointedly ignores John on the sofa, his mortified expression that of a man who knows he’s in trouble. “Here about the case?”

“Sod the bloody case!” Lestrade gasps, his eyes still bulging out at Sherlock’s semi covered belly. “What the bloody _fuck_ is going on?!” 

Sherlock sniffs and tightens his arms further around himself, his manner going for haughty instead of the despair he can feel clawing at his skin. 

“Surely even you should be able to figure that out,” he sneers, pacing to throw himself in his armchair, his shirt falling open once again and exposing the bump. It size appearing considerably larger as Sherlock slumps down petulantly. 

“Pregnant, you really are fucking pregnant aren’t you?” Lestrade blinks, his voice taking on a disbelieving quality as his eyes still continue to focus around Sherlock’s midsection. “It’s not some sort of experiment?” 

“Of course it’s not an experiment!” Sherlock snaps, sitting up and beginning to button up his shirt hastily. “I know you think I am some emotionless machine Lestrade but even I am not so cruel!” 

Lestrade holds his hands up in surrender and exhales slowly, closing his eyes for a moment. “Alright, okay, I’m sorry. It’s just a bit of a shock is all,” he says his eyes finally drifting from Sherlock’s stomach to take in the rest of the room. His eyes widen significantly once more when he catches sight of John on the sofa. 

“Oh bloody hell it’s not yours is it?!” 

“No,” Sherlock interjects quickly, watching John’s panicked expression from the corner of his eye. How he flinches and swallows nervously, mentally trying to prepare himself for a blow. “It’s not John’s.”

Lestrade turns away from John to look back at Sherlock, his face even more bewildered than before; Sherlock sees John bury his face in his hands, his fingers sliding into his hair. “Then who the hell’s is it?”

Sherlock shrugs with fake nonchalance, clearing his throat a little and preparing himself to put on his best performance. “Oh just an old friend,” he says absently, his face the picture of innocence. “Somebody I met at university actually, turned up here at the wrong time and well,” he pauses, gesturing to his stomach dramatically, “this was the result. You know what us omegas are like Lestrade, absolutely insatiable once heat starts.” 

Lestrade chokes a little and a faint blush crawls over his face. Sherlock mentally rolls his eyes at Lestrade’s prudish alpha sensibilities. 

“How far gone are you?” Lestrade asks once he has composed himself somewhat; Sherlock shifts as he feels the baby start to move once more and he moves his hand unconsciously back to rest on his stomach. 

“21 weeks,” he says, smoothing his hand up and down a little, soothing. He watches Lestrade’s face as the detective splutters unattractively. 

“Oh bloody _hell_! I suppose that’s what that fainting was all about last month right? Jesus Christ Sherlock! All those cases I’ve called you in on! Anything could have happened!” 

Sherlock scowls and straightens up in his seat, his body tensing as he absorbs Lestrade’s words and their implications.

“I hope you’re not suggesting what I think you are Lestrade,” he says dangerously, his voice deliberately flat and vaguely threatening. Anger courses through him under his skin, fluttering unpleasantly at the knowledge of what Lestrade is indeed saying, that he can expect no more cases for the foreseeable future. 

Lestrade has the gall to look sheepish, one hand rising up to rub awkwardly through his grey hair. He sighs. 

“Look it’s something we’ll have to talk about alright? I can’t just let you run around without protection anymore. If I’d have known I wouldn’t have let you within a mile of that serial killer case.”

Sherlock clenches his fists and grits his teeth.

“I am not one of your lackeys Lestrade, you cannot tell me what to do!”

Lestrade shrugs faintly and looks at Sherlock apologetically; Sherlock wishes he could throw something heavy at his head. 

“No I can’t,” Lestrade says resignedly. “But I can make sure you are not allowed within 50 feet of any crime scene in London. I won’t have you on my conscience Sherlock, not you or your baby.” 

Sherlock snarls and rises to his feet. He moves across the room with fierce intent, his fist clasped tightly at his sides. 

“You need me,” he hisses viciously, drawing himself up to his full height in Lestrade’s personal space. “Without me you’re just a bunch of bumbling imbeciles, stumbling around blindly waiting for the next clue!”

Lestrade pulls himself up and raises his chin, staring Sherlock down with sharp eyes. Sherlock smells the alpha testosterone emitting from him in waves and smirks.

“Make that 100 feet,” Lestrade says flatly and steps back, turning towards the door with his fists clenched. “For once in life do as you’re told Sherlock!” he shouts hotly, walking down the stairs. “Otherwise you’ll have your brother to answer to!”

Sherlock snarls and reaches down to the coffee table, grabbing a mug and throwing it violently towards the doorway. The mug smashes loudly, spraying chunks of clay all over the room. Sherlock’s chest heaves and his hands shake; John remains silent on the sofa. 

“I suppose that made you feel better?” John says eventually, his voice quiet and ragged as he draws his hands over his face. Sherlock breathes shakily and turns to look at John, his face dark and vicious. 

“Oh and I suppose you’re happy now,” Sherlock sneers, stepping around the coffee table. “You’ve got what you wanted. Me, stuck in this hideous flat, bored out of my _mind_ , breeding your child while you’re free to do as you please with that _woman_. Best of both worlds for John Watson! No wonder they gave you that revolting nickname in the army, you seem to have a problem with keeping it in your trousers!” 

John tenses on the sofa and stares up at Sherlock with his jaw clenched tight; he grits his teeth and snaps. 

“Oh don’t talk like this is all on me Sherlock! I seem to remember quite clearly you not objecting at the time!” 

“I am not the one who is _engaged_!” Sherlock roars, moving closer to the sofa, hands curled into fists by his side. “I am not the one who is _lying_! I have done nothing wrong!” 

John pushes himself up abruptly from the sofa and right into Sherlock’s personal space. Sherlock glares down at him hotly, less than a foot of distance between them. 

“Not lying?” John laughs mockingly. “You just _lied_ right now! Not 5 minutes ago!” he shouts, gesturing one arm towards the door wildly, indicating the space in which Lestrade had previously vacated. “Or maybe you weren’t?” he then adds bitterly. “Maybe it really isn’t my baby after all? Maybe it really is Victor’s! Or Irene’s or whoever the fuck else you picked up while you were gone!”

“Oh don’t be _absurd_ John!” Sherlock yells, breathing hard as anger thrums through him; his skin vibrating with it. “Did you want me to out you to Lestrade?! Is that what you wanted? Because believe me I can arrange it! Fuck, I’ll even tell Mary for you if that’s what you want!” 

John growls, his nostrils flaring dangerously. “You wouldn’t dare!”

Sherlock sneers and smiles viciously, shaking his head.

“Oh you should know by now John I’d have no qualms whatsoever about telling anyone anything,” he murmurs darkly, fingers flexing by his side. “In fact I’d take great pleasure in it!”

“You bastard,” John hisses. “I have told you I will tell her!” 

“When?!” Sherlock shouts, his last resolve breaking as he pushes further into John’s space, eyes furious and fists shaking. “When will that be John?! Next Christmas?! 10 years from now?! _When_?!”

“I don’t _know_!” John bellows, flinging his arms wide. “I don’t know! I don’t _fucking know_ Sherlock! I am trying to fucking hold this fucking bullshit all together alright without any of you getting hurt, don’t you fucking _see that_?!”

“You are _already hurting me_!” Sherlock yells, his voice breaking thickly as all the pain and hurt and anger he feels becomes too much. He breathes heavily, vision blurring as John stares back at him silently. A sharp twinge suddenly shoots up from his stomach and he gasps, hand automatically dropping down to clutch at his belly; John reaches for him as he stumbles.

“Do not touch me!” he snarls shakily, pushing John away violently and stepping back, hand curled protectively around his stomach. John looks on horrified.

“ _Sherlock_ –”

“Get out!” Sherlock shouts, dropping down into his armchair and fisting both hands in his hair, tugging hard. “Get out _now_!”

He hears John take a step towards him and he rears up suddenly, picking up a chemistry journal that he’d discarded down the side of his chair the day before, and launching it at John hard. “I said _leave_!” he roars as the book hits John in the chest and John stumbles back, arms raised around his head. The journal thumps to the floor and they both breathe harshly, the flat succumbing to baited silence. 

“Fine,” John croaks, dropping his arms down and nodding his head weakly. “Fine. I’ll go.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and ducks his head down, pushing his palms tight into his eye sockets as he hears John’s footsteps head towards the door and down the stairs. He drops his hands to his lap when he hears the front door close to and exhales slowly, fingertips gently teasing at the hem of his shirt. 

He feels the baby kick once and does his best to convince himself he doesn’t want to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry! Sorry for this taking so long and sorry for it being so 'meh'. I finished uni 2 weeks ago and had this pretty much done but then I got ill and spent most of last week in bed before I could finish it and post, and then once I got better I went back through and found so much that needed re-writing and stuff I wanted to change. There are still some things I'm not 100% on but I think this is about as perfect as I'm going to get it aha. So yeah, apologies! 
> 
> So much anger and hurt and 'saying-things-you-don't-really-mean' in one chapter! I feel so bad!
> 
> (Sherlock's uni friend is, of course, Victor Trevor. I have some sort of idea that some point between Sherlock returning and this fic Victor came to Sherlock about a case and John discovered they had 'history'. History Victor probably wanted to bring into present time and John wasn't too pleased... but hey, that's another story for another time. Victor won't be making an appearance, but his name will be cropping up more than likely.)


	9. Chapter Eight

Sherlock ignores 13 texts and 6 phone calls from John in the space of 6 hours. 

He leaves his phone lying idly on the coffee table and pointedly does not glance over at his mobile vibrating its way across the surface, the screen flashing brightly as it signals another incoming message he won’t read; he prefers instead to focus his thoughts on the baby book he’d bought after discovering it to be the least tedious of the thousands available on Amazon. 

He flicks the page and folds back the spine a little, scan reading over the diagrams and paragraphs of text. According to his research at 22 weeks the baby is now around 11 inches long and starting to look less like the squashed alien of earlier scans and more like an actual small person, arms and legs and delicate facial features; his hand moves subconsciously to his waist and rubs gently over the t-shirt covered curve there at the thought.

He gets half way through the chapter on week 22 development before he hears Mrs Hudson’s feet on the stairs, her gait slow and steady indicating that she is carrying something, more than likely food. He rolls his eyes; whenever John is absent Mrs Hudson appears to take it on herself to make sure he eats. 

“Just me Sherlock love,” she says as she enters the flat, balancing a plate of what appears to be biscuits in one hand, and clutching a stack of letters in the other. “I bought you up some shortbread dear, me and my little Evie made them yesterday. Oh and some post just came through for you so I thought I’d better bring it up.”

Sherlock lifts his gaze from the book in his lap and watches as Mrs Hudson bustles her way into the kitchen, still chattering away to herself enthusiastically. He slips the piece of envelope he’d been using as a bookmark back inside and sighs, kicking his heels down off the coffee table and pushing himself up to stand with a grunt; his back protesting it’s sudden drastic change of position. 

He moves towards the doorway, leaning casually against the frame as Mrs Hudson places both the shortbread and stack of letters down on the only free space on the table and sighs, catching sight of the pile of mugs and plates in the sink. 

“Honestly Sherlock the state of this kitchen! You need to start cleaning up after yourself young man, soon you won’t have much of a choice,” she says, stepping forward, turning on the hot tap and picking up the half empty bottle of Fairy liquid from beside the sink. “Just this once! And you can make yourself useful and stick the kettle on instead of just watching me clean up your mess,” she chides, glancing back at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow, her elbows already deep in bubbles as she scrubs at a plate. 

Sherlock sighs again, but places his book beside the shortbread on the table and moves around to flick the kettle on. He reaches up for 2 of the remaining 3 clean mugs from the cupboard and opens the box of PG tips, dropping a tea bag in each one before closing the cupboard and turning towards the fridge for the milk.

“You should see how big Evie is now Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson chatters after a moment, rinsing out a mug before turning it upside down on the draining board. “Hard to imagine she’ll be starting school in a couple of weeks. Only feels like yesterday when Jane told me Hannah was expecting!” Sherlock steps around her and reaches for the milk in the fridge, sniffing it once and deeming it acceptable. 

“It’ll be the same for you dear,” she continues as Sherlock picks up the kettle and grabs a teaspoon. “Before you’ll know it your little one will be walking and talking and suddenly they’ll be off to school. The time seems to go ever so quick.”

“I can assure you Mrs Hudson that time is a constant, and travels no quicker than it did when you were a child,” Sherlock replies, scooping out the tea bags and tossing them into the bin carelessly. Mrs Hudson swats him gently on the arm, soapy bubbles popping silently on the arm of his dressing gown. 

“Oh you know what I mean,” she chastises, a smile on her face. Sherlock hums vaguely and adds the milk as well as 3 sugars to his own mug. He waits as Mrs Hudson tips out the dirty water and dries her hands on a tea cloth, his hand outstretched to pass her her mug. She nods her thanks and Sherlock feels her hand gently on his elbow as she directs him back towards the sitting room. 

Sherlock lowers himself back down to the sofa and blows gently on his tea as Mrs Hudson takes a seat in John’s armchair; he shifts a little as the baby moves in a flurry of kicks. 

“Kicking?” Mrs Hudson asks, taking a sip of her own tea; her eyes twinkling. 

“Yes. Making it a bit of a habit I’ve noticed,” Sherlock says, rubbing his free hand reflexively over the curve of his bump. He adjusts his grasp on his mug and Mrs Hudson smiles. 

They sit in comfortable silence, sipping slowly at tea, until a loud knock at the door sounds up from the stairway and Sherlock glances over at Mrs Hudson with a raised eyebrow. Mrs Hudson mimics the gesture in reply but leans forward and places her half empty mug on the coffee table, pushing herself up with a groan. 

“It won’t be for me dear I can tell you that now,” she says as Sherlock watches her walk to the entrance of the flat and out into the hallway. Her footsteps are light as she walks down the stairs. 

Sherlock swallows the last of his tea and stands, moving into the kitchen and placing his empty mug in the sink. He pauses in the middle of the kitchen and unravels the loosely knotted dressing gown tie at his waist, looking down towards where his once flat stomach used to exist. He cups his hand over the swell and sucks at his lower lip.

There’s no way he can hide this from clients now, even the most dim-witted of people would have to be extremely unobservant not to notice his condition. He can only hope that none of them will take Lestrade’s _hateful_ macho-alpha stance – restrictive and archaic – or at least be too desperate for his help that they turn a blind eye and swallow down their omega prejudices. 

“Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson calls as she re-enters the flat. “You’ve got a visitor.”

Sherlock turns and schools his face. He pushes his shoulders back and strides purposely back into the front room, dressing gown fluttering dramatically about his ankles. He raises his jaw and prepares himself to endure the wailings of a tearful omega woman or the bland troubles of a dull beta couple, but finds himself stopping abruptly when the ‘visitor’ steps around Mrs Hudson and makes their presence known. 

She’s on her lunch break, hair windswept and a splash of mud on the hems of her trousers. The bottom of her blouse is dusted with a pink powder synonymous with water soluble paint used by small children.

“Mary.”

Mary’s eyes are wide and her mouth slightly gawping, gaze transfixed on Sherlock’s midsection; she quickly manages to compose herself at the announcement of her name. “Sherlock,” she says, a forced polite smile painting over her features. “Congratulations! John never said.”

Sherlock barely represses a snort and walks into the living room to take a seat in his armchair; her choice of words and the thought that he could end this right now, spill John’s dirty little secret once and for all, not going unnoticed.

“No?” he says with false surprise, his expression faintly mocking as he tilts his head to the side innocently. “Well, I guess it must have slipped his mind. You know what John’s like.” 

Mrs Hudson flitters in the background, her fingers gently playing with the delicate chain around her neck. 

“I’ll leave you both to it dear,” she says with a pointed nod towards him. Sherlock sees her eye Mary wearily before turning and heading back down the stairs; he represses a smirk when doesn’t hear her front door close to fully. 

Mary steps further into the room and presses her hands together, the sleeves of her red coat too long for her petite frame. 

“I came to pick up some of John’s things. He said not to come and disturb you but I didn’t think you’d mind.”

Sherlock hums and nods his head sarcastically, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back in the chair fully. _Oh John, so afraid. So afraid that he might carry out his threat to tell Mary that he’d told her to stay away._

“No,” Sherlock drawls, blinking slowly, his lip curling up at one side. “I don’t mind at all.”

Mary smiles briefly and nods her head once, hitching her thumb back towards the doorway. “Well I’ll just pop upstairs. I won’t be 5 minutes and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

Sherlock hums again, nonchalantly, and shrugs, leaning an arm over the side of his armchair to grasp for his violin case. He sees Mary hesitate out of the corner of his eye, watching him with a scowl on her brow until he scrapes his rosin-less bow over the strings sharply. He sees her wince at the screech and smirks when she finally turns and walks up the stairs, her kitten heels clicking on the floorboards. 

He plays a little Beethoven while he waits, before switching to something out of his own repertoire; allegro and staccato, melancholy in the key of E minor. He scales through quietly until Mary’s kitten heels sound on the stairs once more and then plays a little louder. 

Mary walks back into the front room, one of John’s duffle bags over her shoulder and hair falling out of her loosely tied bun in wisps around her face. Sherlock continues to play as she adjusts the collar on her coat.

“Sherlock,” she says, and to Sherlock’s dismay, takes a seat on the sofa. Sherlock scowls and cuts himself off mid bar with a sharp scrape of his bow, Mary’s brow raises slightly but appears annoyingly unaffected. 

“I just wanted to say,” she continues, brushing her hair back from her face. “Whatever it was that was said between you and John the other night, John feels really awful about it.”

Sherlock huffs and rolls his eyes, plucking idly at the strings of his violin; bow lying discarded in his lap. 

“And I suppose he told you that did he?” he sneers, pulling harder at the E string, the thin metal cutting slightly into the pad of his calloused thumb. 

“No,” Mary answers, her tone soft and slightly patronising as if he is one of her sulking nursery kids, petulant and irritable. “He didn’t have to, it’s written all over his face.

“Look,” she continues, adjusting the bag strap on her shoulder before leaning forward and lacing her fingers together. “I know we don’t see eye to eye – ”

“Oh really?” 

“ – but we both care about John, and as much as I loathe to say it, you’re good for him. He’s a bloody miserable sod when you two have a fall out and I hate to see him like that, it’s almost like he loses something of himself. So if you could please just talk to him? Or just let him talk to you because I know he’s been calling you – repeatedly I’d say from the way he’s glued to his phone all of a sudden – and just _fix_ whatever it is that happened so we can all sleep a bit better at night.”

She stands abruptly and Sherlock watches her from the corner of his eyes as she fastens the buttons and belt on her coat.

“I’m having a sort of dinner get together next week,” she continues tentatively after a moment, brushing the hair back off her face once more. “Nothing big just a few friends from work, but I was wondering if you’d come? John would appreciate it – _I_ would appreciate it, if you came. You’re like family to John, and I’m willing to put any grievances I have about you to one side if you’ll do the same for me. For John’s sake.”

Sherlock looks at her blankly, eyes scanning her from head to toe. Her messy flaxen hair and wind chapped lips, her slightly too big coat signalling that she’d started her pre-wedding diet 4 weeks previously; the gentle glint of a single round cut diamond adorning her left ring finger.

He pauses at the diamond, the gem sparkling brightly even in the dull light of the flat. 

It would be so easy, he thinks, so easy just to spoil it all. All it would take is 3 words. Just 3 words and she would walk away from John for good. 

“Sherlock?” Mary prompts, breaking through his reverie; Sherlock raises his gaze briefly to her questioning face once more. 

“I’ll be there,” he says flatly, turning away and focusing on the instrument still perched on his shoulder, he plucks hard at the strings and hears Mary exhale gently, giving away her unease. 

“Good,” she says with false brightness. “Good. I’ll text you the details, or well, I’ll get John to.” Her coats rustles quietly as she re-adjusts the duffle on her shoulder, kitten heels clicking gently on the floorboards as she turns to leave.

“Oh and Sherlock?” she says suddenly, her figure twisted in the doorway, hands tucked deep into her coat pockets. Sherlock pauses, his fingertips hovering tentatively over the neck of his violin; his eyes focus on her despite his reluctance to turn in her direction. 

“Thank you,” she finishes, her voice soft and sincere, a small smile playing on her lips. Sherlock swallows thickly and turns to look at her finally, taking a breath to answer – to ask _why? Why thank me when I’d like nothing better than to see you heartbroken?_ – but she’s gone, heels already clicking down the staircase and out onto the street. 

He drops the violin down from his collarbone and sighs tiredly, eyes fluttering shut of their own accord. He pushes himself up to stand and carefully places the Strad back in its case, loosening off the bow without even consciously realising it. He flicks down the clasps and picks up the case, carrying it back over to breakfast table and placing it down next to his music stand. He straightens up slowly and hesitates when he hears the buzz of his phone on the coffee table once more.

It vibrates wildly across the wooden surface, frustrated and angry at being ignored for so long, until Sherlock silences it with a swipe of his thumb. 

“John.”

*****

John is rumpled and clearly exhausted when he shows up back at Baker Street. The duffle Mary had collected some days earlier carelessly thrown over his shoulder. 

“Sherlock,” he says thinly as he stands in the entrance to the flat. Sherlock blinks slowly in reply.

“If you don’t tell her, I will,” he drawls, fingers steeped against his chin. “Do not think that I won’t out of misguided loyalty to you.”

John swallows once and nods his head resignedly; Sherlock taps his thumbs gently against his bottom lip.

“I’ll tell her,” John says softly, exhaling slowly out of his nose. “This week, I’ll tell her.”

Sherlock raises his chin and lowers his hands, pushing himself up to stand. He straightens out his suit jacket and draws himself up to his full height.

“Good. Make sure you actually do it this time,” he replies sharply, before walking swiftly past John towards his bedroom. He locks the door loudly behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's almost 3 in the morning but I FINALLY got my laptop back yesterday and I really didn't want to wait any longer before posting this. (Hopefully) the wait between chapter will NEVER be over 2 months again, if only because it was driving ME crazy not being able to post anything. I even started re-writing this chapter last week just so I could get it posted. 
> 
> But yeah. Chapter 8, done, finally. *phew*


	10. Chapter Nine

The suit is a dark navy blue, single breasted, one button.

It’s tight, tighter than most of the other suits he’d picked up a few weeks before; the jacket form fitting and the trousers possibly indecent in their clinginess. In all honesty he’s not even sure why he’d bought it at the time – probably in a subconscious rage against John – and for the past weeks it had sat untouched, hanging forgotten in a suitbag in his wardrobe. The garment too restrictive and unsuitable compared to the looser, more comfortable outfits he’d picked up to replace his no-longer-fitting slim cut clothes. 

But for tonight, oh for tonight the suit is just _perfect_.

He smoothes a palm over his front and turns side on in the mirror.

The bump looks, undeniably, enormous. The jacket buttoned precisely where his stomach starts to curve, highlighting the difference between his still slim upper torso and the roundness of his waist. It makes him look every inch the glowing expectant omega, vulnerable and delicate – the most perfect disguise. 

Sherlock sighs as a quiet knock at the door breaks him from his thoughts. He passes his hand one final time over his stomach as he walks over to the door, turning the handle and opening it wide; he raises an eyebrow expectantly at the man standing on the other side. 

John is dressed in his best shirt, creases ironed out with absolute precision; his hair is lightly styled and Sherlock can smell the splash of aftershave John had hastily applied after his shower, the musky scent complementing John’s own alpha base notes. 

“John,” Sherlock drawls, folding his arms across his chest and raising his chin. “Something you need?”

John clears his throat nervously and shuffles from side to side; feet finally parting as he automatically falls into a parade rest. “Actually, I need to talk to you. Please.”

Sherlock exhales and nods once sharply, pushing past John and out into the hallway. He hears John’s footsteps follow behind him hesitantly as he stalks towards the front room. He lowers himself down carefully into his seat, hand resting automatically on the crest of his bump.

“So what exactly would you like to talk to me about John?” Sherlock smiles mockingly, teeth bared and eyebrows raised; John remains standing, hands clenching and unclenching nervously by his side. “I assume it will be some pathetic plea to my non-existent sympathetic side in an effort to try and save yourself from –”

“I’m going to tell her. Tonight. I’m going to tell Mary tonight.”

Sherlock cuts himself off abruptly and blinks. He stares over at John; takes in his fisted hands and his tense jawline, the way he can’t bring himself to look up from his chocolate brown ‘date’ shoes. The way he holds himself as if prepared for battle, even though he can smell the fear and distress leeching from John’s skin, bitter and choking. His lip twitches minutely and he scoffs at the absurdity of it all – that John would even _dare_ to tell Mary the night of her precious dinner.

“And so when exactly are you preparing to drop this bombshell? During, or before the after dinner cheese board?” 

John’s gaze snaps up immediately and fixes Sherlock with a hard glare, his irises piercing and dark. 

“You don’t get to do this Sherlock. I am going to tell her tonight, after dinner, when the time is right. You do not get to say _anything_ Sherlock. Despite what you may believe I love Mary, I love her very much and I will not let you humiliate her because of something that _we_ have done, do you understand me?” John growls, his voice hard and angry, commanding Sherlock’s submission. Sherlock snarls and shakes his head pushing himself up to stand. 

“You are so unbelievably naive John, for someone with some degree of intelligence. If you think that sparing her a public humiliation will spare her the pain of experiencing any humiliation at all then you are more stupid than I could have ever imagined,” he sneers, leaning down and squaring up in John’s personal space. “Now if you’ll excuse me I believe I have some dirty laundry that needs to be washed.”

He steps around John and moves through the kitchen towards his bedroom, hands pressed into his trouser pockets. He hears John swear tiredly under his breath as he closes the door hard behind him. 

***** 

The street the taxi pulls up in is quiet and tranquil. Red brick Victorian terrace houses line either side of the street; each one with their own little pathway and patch of garden, complete with small family hatchbacks outside half of them. It all looks so drearily suburban, so painfully average and _dull_ that Sherlock can already feel the beginnings of a headache tapping at his temples; the knowledge that the next few hours of his life will be inundated with equally as dull tales, from the occupants of these dire, domestic dwellings finally sinking in. 

He opens the cab door as soon as the taxi pulls to a stop outside a narrow house approximately halfway down the terrace. The outside is neat and tidy, the entrance gate painted a pale eggshell blue to match the window boxes attached to the front of the house, each one overflowing with brightly coloured pansies in purple, yellow and pink. Sherlock eases himself out, one hand pressed over his waist as he hears John lean forward and pay the cabbie. 

He walks over towards the house and pauses at the gate, reluctantly waiting for John to join him. He hears the cab door slam and the taxi pull away followed by John’s feet jogging over to meet him on the pavement. Sherlock stands silently as John moves past him and unlatches the gate, walking down the pathway and up the 3 stone steps to Mary’s front door. He knocks briefly on the dark blue wood and Sherlock moves slowly to stand behind him. 

The door opens quickly, soft light and muffled chatter spilling out into the darkening street, before it pulls aside and reveals Mary’s silhouette in the entrance.

“John!” she smiles, heels clicking as she steps out to hug John tightly. Sherlock rolls his eyes as she kisses him warmly and John rests his hands on her slim waist. They separate after a brief moment and Mary swats John playfully on the arm. 

“You’re late!” she chastises, arching an eyebrow and trying to hold on unsuccessfully to her annoyed pretence. “Joanne has been nagging me for the past half an hour about you, she wants your ‘doctorly advice’ on Liam’s cough, apparently it’s getting worse.” 

Sherlock sighs exasperatedly as John leans forward and gives Mary a quick kiss, moving around and edging into the doorway. He murmurs something in Mary’s ear that makes her giggle girlishly, before glancing warningly over at Sherlock and moving into the house. Sherlock plasters an overfriendly smile on his face and steps forward as Mary turns towards him at last. 

“Sherlock,” she says leaning forward and embracing him; Sherlock wrinkles his nose as her cloying perfume assaults his senses. She pulls back and smiles up at him, her eyes slightly glazed already from the red wine that lightly stains her lips. “I really am glad you decided to come, it’s good to see you.” 

Sherlock shams a grin as she continues to smile up at him, her small hands resting softly on the tops of his arms. He almost feels a pang of guilt over the fact that her happy contentedness will be ruined by the end of the night, but swallows the feeling down and laughs once gently, the sound appearing wrong even to his own ears.

“Yes, well, the things we do for John!” 

Mary’s smile dims a little and her gaze sharpens suddenly, her muddy moss coloured eyes shine a bright green in the yellow glow of the streetlights. 

“The things we do for John,” she repeats softly, the tone of her voice far from the bright bubbly thing it had been 5 minutes ago. Sherlock frowns a little as he catches the briefest expression of _something_ flickering on her face before it’s gone as quickly as it came; she steps back, withdrawing her hands and clears her throat. 

“Sorry, where are my manners? Can imagine you’re dying to sit down,” she laughs feebly, nodding down to Sherlock’s bump. She places her hand on his elbow and gestures him inside. Sherlock smiles in acknowledgement and steps up into the hallway, he turns to the right and moves into the front room as he hears Mary close the door behind him. 

The room is lit warmly by various floor lamps dotted in the corners; an archway splits the length of the house in 2, dividing the sitting area from the fully made up dining table. The idle chatter of the 8 occupants scattered around the room breaks up the gentle music playing in the background, something soft and crooning and vaguely familiar. 

“Now where have you been hiding this one Mary?” A woman asks loudly from beside the fireplace; Sherlock turns towards the voice. An alpha, recently divorced, early 40’s. Her hair is dark and thick and her black pinstriped suit is lightly tailored, enhancing her small waist and large chest. She’s attractive despite her fading youth, skin still relatively wrinkle free even without the use of Botox. Sherlock scans her from head to toe as Mary’s heels click on the floor, signalling her arrival. 

“This is Sherlock,” she says brightly as she appears by his side. “John’s flatmate.”

“Ah, the mysterious flatmate,” the alpha grins peering up from underneath her lashes, she steps forward and holds out her hand for Sherlock to shake. “Rachael Jones. I work with Mary. Heard a lot about you I have to say.”

“All good I hope,” Sherlock answers; a polite grin fixed upon his face as he takes her hand firmly and shakes. She smirks up at him predatorily and he steels his face against a wince as a waft of her pheromones hit him full on. 

“For the most part,” she replies, shrugging one shoulder lazily as Sherlock releases her hand. “Although Mary never mentioned how handsome you are, such beautiful eyes.”

Sherlock clears his throat and smiles falsely, his facial muscles already beginning to ache with prolonged use.

“Thank you, although you should probably be thanking my mother for those.” He clears his throat again pointedly and gestures over to the side table currently holding a selection of drinks. “If you’ll excuse me for just a moment,” he says stepping around the alpha and moving over to the table. 

He sighs tiredly and grabs a glass, reaching for the jug of water sat untouched next to the various bottles of wine; he desperately wishes that he could pour some for himself if only to dull his mind to the tedium of the night ahead, mindless chit-chat and fake laughter – the highlights of suburban living. He instead begrudgingly pours himself a glass of water and takes a sip, rolling his eyes as he hears someone draw up beside up. A beta judging by the wild grassy scent, his theory confirmed as he turns to look at the interloper. 

“Hello, I’m Laura,” the petite woman pipes up, holding out her hand. Sherlock shakes it quickly, transferring his glass from one hand to the other. “I went to school with Mary, you’re John’s flatmate right?”

“Yes. Sherlock,” Sherlock replies with a nod, releasing her hand and taking another sip of his drink. Laura smiles and fingers delicately at her glass of wine, her short blonde hair curling gently around to frame her heart-shaped face. 

“It’s good to finally meet you, John talks about you all the time,” she continues, nodding briefly over towards where John is currently sat talking animatedly to a beta couple on the sofa. “Oh and congratulations!” she says cheerfully, touching her hand briefly to the back of Sherlock’s wrist and glancing down at Sherlock protruding stomach. “I didn’t realise. I’m sure Mary must have mentioned it at some point and I’ve just forgotten. How far along are you?”

“23 weeks,” Sherlock says, allowing a small flicker of a genuine smile to curl at his mouth, the thought of his unborn child prodding at his deeply buried, preening omega nature. Laura grins at him and sighs softly, her obvious yearning for a child of her own suddenly washing over her face. 

“So not long to go then! It must be so exciting! I bet your alpha is so happy!”

Sherlock chokes as he takes a swig of his water; he coughs and does his best to compose himself, disguising his scoff as a clearing of his throat. 

“Hmm, that’s one way to describe it,” he mutters sarcastically under his breath, glancing quickly over at John as Laura looks at him curiously, her lips parting to ask him to explain. 

He finds himself sighing in relief when Mary claps her hands loudly and interrupts them all to announce that dinner is ready to be served. 

***** 

“So Sherlock, Joanne tells me you’re a detective.”

Sherlock pushes carelessly at his runner beans and hums under his breath, placing his knife and fork down against his half empty plate and reaching for his glass of water. He looks up at the bearded, blonde haired alpha opposite and nods. 

“Consulting detective actually,” he says, placing his drink back down on the table and leaning back in his seat. “I mainly liaise with Scotland Yard, although I do take the odd private case; depending on how long the client can keep my attention of course.”

A polite titter of laughter moves across the table and Sherlock internally rolls his eyes. The bearded man – _Ted? Terry? Some other mundane name beginning with ‘T’_ – chuckles obligingly before sighing and taking a sip from the glass of wine in his hand. 

“And how does your alpha feel about you running around solving crimes? Now that you’re expecting and all?” he asks, raising an eyebrow pointedly at the crest of Sherlock’s bump visible above the edge of the table; Sherlock bites at his tongue and tempers down the overwhelming urge to rip the smug alpha’s life to shreds (currently having an affair with his male omega secretary despite the fact that he is trying for children with his wife, blames the wife for their inability to conceive even though it is he who is firing blanks as a result of an undiagnosed bout of Chlamydia in his 20’s), instead he smirks deliberately and pinches his thigh hard under the table. 

“Well considering the fact that I don’t have one, I don’t particularly find it to be much of a problem,” he answers coolly, meeting the alpha’s judging gaze across from him. He hears John fidget in his seat somewhere to his right and represses a smile. 

“So you’re single then?” Rachael purrs from the blonde’s left, leaning forward in her seat and looking Sherlock over from under hooded lids. Sherlock curls his lips into some form of a smirk as John shuffles uncomfortably once more further down the table.

“Yes, very much so.”

“So where’s the father? They’ve got to be _somewhere_?” A drunk, red haired omega pipes up from the far end, her eyes narrowed as she attempts to focus her blurring vision. Sherlock catches Mary’s cheeks colouring embarrassedly from the corner of his eye.

“Ellie! Really, I – you don’t have to answer that Sher – ”

“He’s not exactly in the picture,” Sherlock replies smoothly, cutting Mary off mid protest. He watches John from the edge of his vision and mentally grins at the way John holds himself tense in his seat, his eyes firmly fixed on the half empty glass in front of him. He feels a sick sense of pleasure thrum under his skin at the expression of John’s face, hidden fear laced with barely repressed anger, ridiculously satisfying. 

“Oh how awful,” Rachael coos, fluttering her eyelashes somewhat as she crosses her arms underneath her breasts. “Some alphas just don’t know how to treat an omega.” 

Sherlock swallows down the instinctive sneer at the suggestion that he needs to be petted and _coddled_ , and instead draws from the stereotypical omega vulnerability, making himself small and submissive. 

“Yes well, it was all rather a mess,” he says solemnly, tilting his head to the side and looking over at Rachael demurely. “This little bundle of joy,” he continues rubbing a hand dramatically over the crest of his bump, “is the result of a little ‘mishap’ with an old friend, I suppose you could say.”

A small chortle of laughter filters out from the alphas at the table and Sherlock imitates a knowing smile, their bird-brained lecherous thoughts of desperate, wanton omegas obvious and repulsive. He passes a glance in John’s direction and raises an eyebrow when he sees John’s warning expression, his lips pursed and fingers flexing rhythmically on the table top; Sherlock smiles pleasantly and turns back towards Rachael who is still looking over at him wolfishly. 

“We used to have a sort of ‘thing’,” he says conspiratorially, leaning toward Rachael and forming air quotes with his fingers, “ _Victor_ and I, back in university. Until he found himself a better offer, although clearly in hindsight it can’t have been that much of a better offer.”

Rachael laughs loudly and inches her manicured fingers across the table, quite obviously desperate to reach out and _touch_ ; her orange and cloves scent is heady and dominant in the room, so much so that Sherlock half expects the beta’s around them to be able to detect it. 

The sound of a chair being pushed back from the table cuts through Rachael’s laughter, and Sherlock whips his head around to the right, he watches with a smirk as John rises abruptly from his seat and clears his throat. 

“Time for pudding don’t you think Mary?” he says with a short smile, turning towards his still vaguely pink cheeked fiancée. Mary nods enthusiastically and stands too, collecting up a few plates and glasses absently and passing them over to John.

“Yes! Pudding!” she replies, fixing a well mannered grin on her face. “I’ll just go sort that out now; will you be okay with the plates John?”

John nods and Mary places a kiss on his cheek before leaving for the kitchen, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor. Sherlock smiles up innocently at John as he makes his way around the table and collects his plate, a little thrill running through him at the death glare and clenched jaw he receives in response. 

***** 

The gentle repeated tap of a teaspoon on a coffee cup brings an end to the quiet, banal ‘chit-chat’ that had struck up over cheese and biscuits. Sherlock looks up from his own highly sweetened cup, and follows the collective gaze of the rest of the dinner guests to where Mary is sat at the end of the table, teaspoon still in hand and a look of anticipation on her face. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” she says apologetically, placing the teaspoon on the side of her saucer and clasping her hands together, the diamond on her ring finger shining brilliantly as it catches the light. “But erm, I’ve got something I need to say, well _ask_ really.

“John,” she continues, and Sherlock sits up in his chair, brows furrowed as he looks between an apprehensive Mary and a bemused looking John. He feels something unpleasant settle in the pit of his stomach, but tempers it down and focuses instead on the couple at the end of the table. 

“John, as you know we will be married soon – ” Mary pauses as various guests cycle through amused noises and sweetly sick ‘aw’s’. Sherlock sighs and bites back an impatient snarl at the repeated _stalling_ , desperate for Mary to just get it over and done with. He ignores the dampness he can feel building on his palms and the increase in pulse rate, the way the overly sweet coffee suddenly tastes bitter on his tongue. 

“And well,” she adds, once the bleating ceases; taking a breath as she looks over at John and gently touches her fingers to the back of his hand. “I think it’s only appropriate, if I ask you to move in with me.” 

Sherlock feels his stomach clench and he swallows thickly, his gaze falling to where he had unconsciously placed his hand over his rounded belly. The people around him restart their abhorrent bleating once more and Sherlock looks up, stares straight over at John who in turn is blinking widely at Mary. Mary whose face looks open and hopeful, happy and excited, the complete opposite of the way Sherlock had imagined her expression would be at the end of the night.

He slips his hand into his trouser pocket and quickly taps at his phone blindly under the table. He manages to force himself to look surprised and put out when his mobile beeps loudly. 

“Sorry,” he says, withdrawing his phone and making a show of opening his self sent text; he sees John’s wide eyes snap towards him suddenly and Sherlock fights back a wave of nausea clambering up his throat. “Detective Inspector Lestrade, seems there’s been a murder.”

“I’ll come with you,” John says quickly, moving to stand as Sherlock pushes himself up steadily from the table. Sherlock shakes his head and waves a hand discouragingly, his smile a little too cheerful.

“No stay! Don’t feel the need to come on my behalf,” he drawls, forcing his voice to be airy and encouraging. “After all I’m sure you and Mary have _all sorts_ of things to talk about! No, I think it’s best if I just take this one.” 

“Well let me at least call you a taxi!” John pushes, following Sherlock out through the kitchen. Sherlock allows his grin to drop the moment he moves out of the guests' line of sight, and storms down the corridor to the front door, flinging it open without looking back to where he can hear John’s rapid footsteps behind him. 

He presses a hand to the underside of his stomach and walks down the 3 steps to the gate, throwing it aside and moving out into the street; he curses when he feels John’s hand curl around his elbow and pull him to a stop. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” John hisses, attempting to keep his voice quiet and not disturb the neighbours. Sherlock swings around suddenly and wrenches his arm from John’s grasp, pushing into John’s space. 

“Home,” he snarls, staring down at John hard, his eyes cold and hard as flint. “Well I guess it’s just my home now seeing as you’ll be moving in with Mary.” 

John looks around disbelieving and gestures wildly at his side. “I haven’t even agreed to it, Sherlock! It’s just an idea for God’s sake!”

“But it’s not though is it!” Sherlock snaps harshly, sneering at John’s bewildered expression. “It is not unreasonable to expect that a married couple live together is it John? And besides, this has solved your little problem quite nicely hasn’t it? No need to break Mary’s precious little heart now is there?”

John frowns, his brow drawn tight and eyes confused. “I don’t understand,” he says quietly, peering at up at Sherlock as if he has sprouted another head. 

Sherlock laughs bitterly and scrubs a hand through his hair, stepping back and turning his body away from John; he tilts his head back slightly and tries to stop the wetness building in the corners of his eyes. 

“Well,” Sherlock sighs dramatically, shrugging one shoulder as he finally turns back to look at John. “I don’t need you anymore. Well when I say ‘I’, what I really mean is ‘we’. _We_ don’t need you anymore.” 

John freezes and his jaw tightens minutely, his fingers flex down by his hip, clenching and releasing. “And what do you mean by that Sherlock? ‘We’? ‘We don’t need you anymore’? What _exactly_ does that mean, hmm?” 

Sherlock laughs coldly and shrugs once again; he can feel the smirk on his lips curdling into something vicious and cruel, deliberately designed to hurt. 

“It means _exactly_ that, John. We don’t need you anymore. Well actually, if we are being _precise_ , ‘we don’t _want_ you anymore’ would probably be a better approximation of the truth.”

“No,” John growls, taking a step closer and pointing a finger at Sherlock’s chest. “No, you do _not_ get to do this Sherlock! You do not!”

“I don’t what?” Sherlock asks innocently, his eyes wide and childlike. He raises a hand and places it over his middle, rubbing gently as the baby stirs inside. “I don’t get to raise my child without the presence of it’s father? But I thought that was exactly what I was doing?”

“You promised!” John shouts suddenly, furious and desperate. “You promised me that you wouldn’t do this!”

“And you promised me that you would tell Mary,” Sherlock answers coldly, dropping his hand from his waist and stepping back, holding his arm out as a taxi appears further down the street. “Funny how easily promises can be broken.” 

“ _Sherlock_!” John cries frantically, rushing forward as the cab pulls up and Sherlock opens the door, climbing carefully inside. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll send someone over with your belongings, no need to trouble yourself. Goodbye John,” Sherlock snarks dryly as he reaches for the door handle, flashing him a flat smile as he slams the door to. He sees John’s horrified face through the tinted window as the taxi pulls away and closes his eyes tight to block out the image. 

“Where to?” The cabbie asks gruffly as they approach the junction at the end of the road. Sherlock sighs shakily and swallows, his hands trembling slightly where they sit in his lap. 

“Baker Street, 221b Baker Street.”

***** 

Sherlock doesn’t remember the journey back to the flat, he doesn’t remember paying the cabbie or opening the front door and walking up the 17 steps. However he knows that those things must have happened for him to be curled up tight on his bed, suit now tossed carelessly on the floor and instead dressed in his rattiest t-shirt and bottoms. His body is shivering slightly, either from the cold draft leaking through the semi-closed door or the dampness now ringing his eyes.

He curls up tighter as a shudder runs through his torso, and places his hand on the side of his bump as the baby becomes restless, squirming around wildly in it’s watery home. 

Sherlock shushes it weakly and looks down as he slides his hand under his shirt, rubbing soothing circles into his stretched skin. He stops his motions abruptly when he feels a small kick, not just from the inside but also against the palm of his hand. 

“Oh,” he gasps weakly, a bubble of emotion welling up in his throat. He feels the baby kick against his fingers once more and he slams his eyes closed against the sudden, confusing wave of sadness and delight that washes over him – the feeling swelling deep in his chest and engulfing his heart in a sea of overwhelming pressure. 

He laughs wetly, pushing the side of his head harder into the pillow underneath and tries not to imagine a second hand pressing over his, tanned, scarred and calloused on the index finger. A flash of deep blue flickers in his mind, a ripple of silver/grey/blonde and a lopsided smile reserved just for him, _only_ for him. 

He blames the hormones (damn, _blasted_ , hormones) when he wakes the next morning, for the damp circle under his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God so I am the absolute WORST. Completely and utterly. A THOUSAND apologies for the 6 month (Jesus Christ) wait, and if you're still reading this - HELLO and thank you for sticking with this! I really do appreciate it. I hope that this ended up being worth the wait (I'm not really sure it is eek). If it's any consolation I believe it is is the longest chapter so far, and it was BY A COUNTRY MILE the most difficult to write, hence why (amongst some other real life stuff) it took so long to get finished, and even now I'm not particularly sure if I like how it turned out. 
> 
> So yes, sorry, sorry SORRY! I won't make any more promises that the next update will be in so many weeks (or months), all I can say is hope it won't be that long again. Hopefully it won't be as I did quite a bit of work on later chapters when I was stuck with this one (seriously I managed to have WHOLE chapters completed and edited by the time I'd finished this one). 
> 
> Urgh yes, off to bed now, feels so good to have this chapter actually finished!


	11. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Contains a very brief but rather blunt description of a late term abortion. It's literally a sentence but I just thought I'd give a heads up just in case.*

Once the baby discovers how to make it’s presence known to the outer world, Sherlock quickly realises that it won’t let itself ever be forgotten again. 

It kicks and punches and wriggles at all hours of the day; a swift punch to the kidney at the crack of dawn, a foot pressed up against his ribcage before bed. Sherlock finds himself growing both increasingly annoyed and fascinated with the inner abuse; fascinated by the fact that he can feel a _human being_ poking him from the inside, _outside_ of his body – and all the strange sensations that come with such a bizarre prospect – but very much annoyed by the same sensations when he jolts awake at 5 am with a fist pushed up tight against his bladder. It’s in those early morning moments that he finds himself very much annoyed with his unborn child. 

When he is not being assaulted internally, Sherlock starts catching up on his pre-natal reading, for the most part ensconced on the sofa surrounded by piles of books; the curve of his belly proving to be a very effective book stand when not being jostled by the tiny person inside. 

He engrosses himself thoroughly in his studies, distracting himself from the way Mrs Hudson looks at him sadly when she thinks he can’t see her; the way the flat seems so quiet and _empty_ without the gentle sounds of teaspoons tinkling and soft breathing from across the room. He reads and experiments and jots down so many pages of notes and results that it takes less than a day before the wall behind the sofa is covered, the paperwork from his latest case replaced by reams of vital information about his growing child. 

On the fourth day he immerses himself so fully in researching the statistics behind the most effective birthing positions, that he barely even notices the sound of footsteps on the stairs before their owner has already entered the flat. 

“How quaint,” the irritatingly familiar voice drawls, its cultured tones betraying the identity of its owner. Sherlock sighs and flips a page in his book lackadaisically, unwilling to look up as the clipped footsteps continue over to the fireplace.

“Hmm, 6 weeks and you’ve already gained 8lbs? I’d fire that new assistant of yours, she’s clearly no good for your waistline.” 

“Maybe if you’d listened to your own advice dear brother, you would not find yours in such a burgeoning state either,” Mycroft snipes, the sound of chair springs squeaking as he takes a seat. Sherlock sneers and snaps his book closed, tossing it to the end of the sofa as he pushes himself up with as much dignity as possible. 

“What are you doing here Mycroft? Come to gloat is that it?”

Mycroft runs his fingers over the handle of his umbrella lazily, his eyes looking down towards his perfectly polished shoes, feet crossed at the ankles. “Au contraire Sherlock,” he says, tone slightly smug in his delivery. “I am here for you to reconsider my offer.” 

Sherlock laughs disbelievingly and shakes his head. He leans forward and gently eases himself up to stand, one hand pressed instinctively over his rounded stomach as he moves over to the entrance of the flat and pulls the door open wide, gesturing at the doorway with a flippant flick of his wrist. 

“Consider it reconsidered. Goodbye.”

“I would urge you not to be so hasty Sherlock, especially considering – well, I’m sure you know why,” Mycroft continues, ignoring Sherlock’s vicious glare aimed at the back of his head. “This whole – situation – of yours could easily be remedied by this evening. If you so wished.”

Sherlock scoffs and tightens his fingers around the door handle still clutched in his palm. 

“Yes, because I have nothing I’d rather do today than be forcibly induced into giving birth, push through multiple excruciating hours of labour, only for my child to die at the end.” 

“You are aware that today is the final day that a – _procedure_ , can be performed,” Mycroft persists, unflinching. “After today not even I will be able to fix this situation you have found yourself in.” 

Sherlock sneers and pushes away from the door, stalking across the room to the breakfast table with as much grace as possible.

“Well, it’s a good job that I won’t be requiring your assistance then isn’t it?” he snarks, lowering himself down into one of the wooden chairs. He reaches across the table and drags his laptop towards him, flipping open the lid and tapping rapidly at the keyboard. He hears Mycroft’s exasperated sigh and stabs a little harder at the keys. 

“Now really Sherlock,” Mycroft says, the quiet sound of springs squeaking acknowledging his discomfort. “I am rather concerned that you have not thought this through – ” 

“Hmm, cherry or mahogany?” Sherlock interrupts, staring down thoughtfully at the screen of his laptop. He sees Mycroft falter from the corner of his eye and represses a smirk. 

“Whatever for?” Mycroft splutters, his brow furrowing ungainly. Sherlock steels his expression and continues, ignoring Mycroft’s reply. 

“Or maybe something more of a wicker style, I believe those are quite popular among those ‘yummy mummy’ types,” he says tapping at the keys once more and scrolling down the page, images of delicately arranged wicker cribs flashing by; each one set against a background of pastels and cream. 

Sherlock watches as understanding flickers over Mycroft’s face and his brother rolls his eyes, slumping back in his chair in a way Sherlock hasn’t seen since their youth. “Sherlock – ”

“Of course I could also go for a more traditional style crib for the bedroom and have a smaller wicker basket for in here,” Sherlock continues pointedly, opening a new tab up on the browser. “I think one would fit very nicely at the end of the table. Maybe I could get one of those drape things, babies like those don’t they? ”

“Oh this is absurd,” Mycroft huffs under his breath, rubbing a hand across his forehead. 

“And then there’s the bedding to consider, should I go for ‘sunshine yellow’ or ‘mint green’? Oh but then there’s lilac. I do find purple tones more pleasing – ”

“You have made your point,” Mycroft says loudly and Sherlock cuts himself off abruptly with a small smirk. He sits back slowly in his seat and finally turns to look at Mycroft, one hand tapping lazily against the table top. 

Mycroft straightens minutely in his seat and looks over at Sherlock with one brow raised. 

“I just hope that you are fully aware of what this venture will entail,” Mycroft continues casually, resuming his gentle stroking of the umbrella handle still resting against his hand. “Long nights spent soothing a screaming child, endless years of parent’s evenings and dreary school nativity plays, cuddles and kisses before bedtime... not to mention the _many_ sacrifices to your work. Are you sure that it’s worth it? All because of some sentimental attachment for a man who will never love you back.”

“This has _nothing_ to do with John,” Sherlock snaps harshly, his fist tightening reflexively on the table. Mycroft looks back at him pityingly and Sherlock sneers, a desire to punch Mycroft in his smarmy fat face, building up inside of him. 

“Oh little brother, I do indeed believe this very much has something to do with John Watson,” Mycroft replies solemnly, the lines on his face appearing harsh in the watery light of the room. “Tell me Sherlock, would you be so adamant to continue with this pregnancy had it been anyone else’s child?”

Sherlock swallows and flexes his fingers, his jaw working visibly as he tries to keep himself under control. He hears Mycroft sigh once more and the soft rustle of fabric as he stands, the tip of the umbrella clicking on the wooden floor. 

“Believe it or not Sherlock I do only have your best interests at heart,” Mycroft says after a moment, his footsteps paused at the entrance to the flat. “Dr Cardew is willing to keep his practise open until 8 this evening, do let me know should you change your mind.” 

Sherlock laughs flatly and shakes his head, turning to look his brother in the eye from across the room.

“Oh Mycroft, I’m fairly certain the only interests you hold close to your heart are your own.”

Mycroft holds his gaze, but allows no expression to cross his face as he turns back to the stairwell; his footsteps are quietly clipped on the way down. 

Sherlock waits until he hears the front door close shut before he snarls and shoves the pile of research papers off the desk and across the room, their gentle fluttering the only sound as he buries his face in his hands. 

*****

Sherlock makes himself a cup of coffee (black, 3 sugars; a small ‘fuck you’ to John and Mycroft and whoever the hell else wants to interfere in his life), before he picks up the scattered papers covering the living room floor, growling in annoyance when he realises that they are now all horrifically out of order. 

He spends a large portion of the rest of the afternoon re-ordering and re-arranging his notes, finally organising them into some sort of filing system. It isn’t until one of the newly filled binders knocks against his still open laptop, that he realises that the thing is still on and open to the website selling the pastel coloured baby bedding, the page scrolled halfway down on the lilac crib quilt. 

He pauses, folder in hand and sucks at his bottom lip. 

He had only done it originally to piss off Mycroft, petulant yes but extremely effective. Only now he couldn’t help by find himself fascinated and slightly horrified by the sheer amount of _things_ needed to bring up a tiny human, the list on the sidebar of the page detailing at least 20 different sections alone. 

He places the folder down on the table and turns slightly in his seat until he is sat back in front of the laptop. He moves his finger slowly up and down the track pad, scrolling over the various sections; eyes widening when a whole other load of sub sections pop up beside.

He clicks a link at random and finds himself in the clothes section, another riot of pastel pinks and blues along with the stereotypical gender appropriate outfits. He sighs but clicks on through to the ‘newborn’ section, figuring it to be the most appropriate place to start.

The page is crammed full of tiny outfits of all kinds, once again for the most part in pink and blue; but mixed in amongst them were outfits in soft yellows, creams and muted greys, gender neutral tones all a lot more appealing than the garish pastels. 

Sherlock scrolls through, eyebrow raising at some of the more overly complicated pieces – straps and poppers and buttons all over the place – but humming thoughtfully at some of the simpler clothes. Soft yellow sleepsuits and cream and navy striped mittens; his curser hovers over the ‘add to basket’ button of an eggshell white hat when he feels the presence of someone over his shoulder.

“Mrs Hudson,” he says and turns around to the side of his chair. “What can I do for you?”

“Oh nothing dear,” she says brightly. “Just thought I’d pop up and say hello.”

Sherlock nods and turns back to face the laptop, clicking back off the page for the hat and scrolling down once more.

“Oh I do like that one,” Mrs Hudson pipes up, leaning closer over his shoulder and pointing at a small lavender pinafore dress, Sherlock pauses and lets the curser hover over the zoom.

“I bought my Jane something like that when she was a baby, she looked ever so beautiful,” Mrs Hudson continues wistfully, her hand coming up to rest gently on Sherlock’s shoulder as she gasps excitedly. “That reminds me dear, did you find out what you’re having yet?”

“I’m having a baby, Mrs Hudson,” he drawls in reply, clicking through onto the next page. Mrs Hudson swats at his ear and he smiles lopsidedly as he hears her move away and walk through into the kitchen.

“I’ll take that as a no then shall I?” she calls, the sound dishes being put away filling the room. Sherlock hums and grabs at a spare pad of paper lying beside a day old cup of tea, quickly making a note of the web address as he hears Mrs Hudson move back into the room.

“So have you bought anything yet dear? Only I saw the loveliest bassinet in Marks the other day. I said to Mrs Turner ‘I wonder if Sherlock’s bought any furniture yet?’ Oh it was beautiful, with all these little lace bits on the side – ”

“No, I haven’t bought anything yet,” Sherlock answers quickly, cutting Mrs Hudson off before she can begin in earnest. He glances at her stood beside him, her eyes once again looking at the clothes on the screen. “I believe it’s still a little too early to be thinking about buying anything for the baby yet.”

“Oh nonsense,” she laughs, waving a hand dismissively. “You’re over half way now Sherlock! You should be thinking about getting these things sorted while you can still bend down love. And you’ll need some time to get the upstairs room changed into a nursery.”

Sherlock halts in his scrolling and tenses his jaw briefly before forcing himself to relax, his thumb pressing hard into the side of his laptop. 

“I don’t think I’ll be using the upstairs room. In fact you may as well find another tenant to save it going unused,” he answers flatly, keeping his eyes fixed pointedly on the screen in front of him. He hears Mrs Hudson sigh beside him and his jaw tenses once more. 

“Oh don’t be silly dear; it’s yours to do with whatever you like. Even if John – ” she cuts herself off abruptly and Sherlock closes his eyes when he senses her realisation of her mistake. He can’t bear to see the concerned look in her eyes for another day running, the fear that he might suddenly break down in pieces in front of her if she mentions _his_ name. He hears her shuffle awkwardly from side to side before he feels her hand gently rest back on his shoulder. 

“Just think about it dear and let me know,” she says softly after a moment, her fingers squeeze briefly before she pulls back and he hears he move over to the door. 

“I’ll pop up later and bring you some tea Sherlock,” she continues, her voice brimming with false cheer. “I’ve got some of that Victoria sponge left over from yesterday too if you want it?”

Sherlock exhales slowly and nods, turning his head to look at her over his shoulder. He plasters a smile on his face and pretends as much as she does that everything is okay. 

“That would be lovely Mrs Hudson,” he says politely, waiting until she nods and turns back to go downstairs to let his smile drop. 

He turns back to his laptop and rubs a hand firmly over his face. He pauses when he feels a stirring from inside his belly for the first time in several hours, and lowers his hand down to where the baby kicks once below his naval, smoothing his thumb over his shirt in a small circle. 

His lips tug upwards at the sides as the baby kicks in a little flurry and glances up at the screen in front of him, his eyes catching on a pale yellow and light grey striped romper, the front decorated with 3 black buttons down the centre. 

It’s a fit of sentiment he decides 10 minutes later when he pulls his debit card out of his wallet and clicks the ‘add to basket’ button.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry that this chapter was only a short one, this one was never really planned to be a big chapter as it's sort of a little 'interlude' I think. I'm also very sorry for the wait, I moved house a couple of weeks ago so I haven't had much time to sit down and write lately. I may be starting a new job in the next few weeks as well so I won't be able to say how quickly I'll get the next chapter up either I'm afraid. I hope it'll be quite quickly but once again I can't make any promises. 
> 
> Also thank you so much for all the comments and kudos everyone, it really does mean a lot and I really do appreciate it! ♥


End file.
